The concept of fear
by milgarion
Summary: House looked up, senses askew, his balance at odds with the angle of the lift which had settled at a slant, his cane hitting the shallow end at the same time as the back of Wilson's head. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

He was certain he remembered reading several times that should an elevator could not actually plummet to the floor, he was certain he'd seen an article recently that pointed out the fallacy in Hollywood's obsession with dramatically shot close up's of helpless victims caught perilously in the grips of a fatalistic drop. It had stated, with facts and figures no less, that there had never actually been a recorded case of a lift's safety and breaking mechanisms actually failing.

Still, it doesn't stop your heart from climbing into your throat when the floor disappears beneath your feet, when it suddenly rocks back up again forcing you to your knees as it bucks and wavers, the lights flickering as the walls screech and buckle around you.

The cane was no use, it rattled to the floor, the noise lost in the din as they both scrambled for a hold on the smooth walls, his hand finally closing round the handrail as with a final jolt and the receding echo of a deafening roar burning in his ears the floor stopped its tempestuous vibration beneath his knees.

House looked up, senses askew, his balance at odds with the angle of the lift which had settled at a slant, his cane hitting the shallow end at the same time as the back of Wilson's head.

A string of profanities followed, vehement and profuse in their sudden spirited anger, house felt the impact of it in his stomach, could almost feel it himself, or maybe it was just the throb of sharp, unadulterated agony that stabbed through his leg as he forced his breath to calm, his blood like white hot fire in his veins that stopped his automatic reach to the pocket where the comforting rattle of pills reminded him that comfort was just a dry swallow and a ten minute wait away.

It could have been a minute.

It could have been an hour. Time was an irrelevant mess measured only in the pounding beat of his heart, racing and nauseating.

Blood on Wilson's fingers, an unsurprised grimace of pain as he pulled them back from the growing stain that was slowly seeping into his hair. He could hear his voice, but whether or not Wilson was actually talking to him he couldn't fathom. "What the hell was that?"

Of course it was rhetorical; they were both in the same lift.

His hand finally closed around the bottle of pills, every thought and nerve focused on his thumb as it prised off the top with a pop, his hand shaking as he raised it to his lips.

Whether he took two or three, he couldn't know, couldn't feel what was in his mouth but relished the burn as he swallowed roughly.

"Wilson?" He was embarrassed by the tremble in his voice and he cleared his throat to excuse himself.

"'m fine." He sounded pissy. "You okay?"

"Peachy." He closed the lid and thrust the bottle back into the depths of his pocket before struggling to stand, one hand braced on the floor, the other gripping the handlebar as he pulled himself upright, stumbling and rocking into the wall of the lift, his centre of gravity off kilter. He leant back against the wall, eyeing the straight lines of the corners and the roof, his brain warring with him, it felt the fun house at the fair and his stomach roiled.

He edged his way along the wall, leaning heavily into the lean of the lift, stepping with great care over Wilson who had yet to bring himself to stirring. His fingers traced the edge of the doors, for a momentary instance they moved towards the buttons in some sort of Pavlovian reaction or muscle memory. He closed his fist instead.

A grunt and a groan and Wilson was up, discovering the same fairground attraction quality of their current location in much the same way House had, his shoulder taking the brunt of his slumping connection into the wall.

"What...?" He looked accusingly at the wall, his hands splayed against it as he frowned and straightened up.

"Bomb." The word slipped out of his mouth as soon as his brain stirred it up, hand smoothing down the seam of the door, thumb catching on the rubber as he turned his blank stare to meet Wilson's bewildered gaze.

For a moment he could see he'd forgotten about the head wound, brow furrowed and eyes sliding from his face.

"A bomb?" said in much the same response as if he'd said 'Kraken'.

"Hmmm." He used his especially ingratiating tone, reserved especially to annoy Wilson in moments when he really should be clarifying matters rather than confusing them. Upon reflection it probably wasn't the best time. "The lift rose after it fell." He stated simply, as though that alone should explain it all even though the astounded look on Wilson's face in his peripheral vision told him he was clearly ten steps ahead of him.

"Let me look at that." He stopped his perusal of the lift door, one limping step and his shoulder collided with the wall again, bringing him level with Wilson and his perturbed gaze. "Go on, give me a spin." He twirled his finger in a flamboyant fashion, noting that as he did so his wrist hurt, the action lost and ignored to the point that he actually had to reach out and physically turn Wilson's head until he was met with the sight of fresh blood.

It was never a pleasant sight to see but after a while a clinically detached air dulls the normal human response to gore, expose someone to one subject over and over again, no matter how disturbing or twisted or violent, and even the most docile and sensitive of people become immune.

But an open wound on your best friend. He'd never get used to that, or the sudden lurch of his heart dropping in his chest.

'Suck it up.' He set his inner monologue to stern as he tipped Wilson's head forward, his fingers in his hair, holding him in place as he shook his head.

"Are you serious?" classic Wilson, speechless to incredulous with no steps in between. Where was the reason, where was the logic?

"Of course I'm serious." He stated matter of factly. Where was the methodical step by step process that had already led House to his conclusion? "Need me to spell it out for you?"

The silence said it all and he heaved in a deep breath as he gripped the other man's shoulder, spinning him and waiting the necessary couple of seconds for balance to be regained before he whipped the pen torch from Wilson's front pocket, its light achingly bright under the one remaining halogen bulb. Wilson flinched and house had to fight the urge to grip his fringe to stop him from recoiling.

"Didn't watch the news this morning did you?" He huffed.

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes, earning himself a rather tight hold on his chin. "I was otherwise engaged at the deli, trying to track down milk to replace the entire litre you drank before I'd even managed to get out of bed."

"Excuses, excuses." He released his face, not entirely happy with his pupil response but woefully unable to do anything about it right now. "Credible threats to downtown area?" he posed his question, tucking the torch back into his lab coat with a sharp, smart movement.

"Someone called in a threat to the hospital?" Wilson spluttered, and House could see the scoffing argument forming on his lips. "If there had ac..."

"Of course no-one phoned it in. You really think we'd have been able to stroll into this lift, that we'd even been allowed near the building?" He threw him a particularly withering look. "It was just a news report." He lapsed, leaving the rest of his retort unsaid.

"Then how do you know it..."

"We were bounced upwards." He stepped backwards, rocking uneasily on his good leg, returning his uneasy gaze to the task of assessing their situation.

Another thing Hollywood lied about was the ever present escape hatch in the ceiling.

"I don't get it." Wilson stated plainly, straightening and not letting his penetrating leave House's face. He could feel his eyes all over him.

"The concussion of air as it travelled up the lift shaft." Of course he was going to have to hold his hand through this one.

"I didn't feel anything."

"Of course you didn't." He placed his hand on the door, leaning forward to press his ear against the metal. "You were too busy doing your best impression of the Enterprise coming under attack."

Wilson huffed, his hand going to the back of his head once again.

"There's nothing explosive in the lobby." He continued, cutting off whatever it was Wilson had opened his mouth for. "Gotta be something some wannabe freedom fighter strapped to himself in a search for God and glory."

Wilson rolled his eyes and shook his head, ready to dismiss whatever he said as fantasy.

"You reckon the door will open." He motioned with his hand, leaning forward to take a step up the incline to the door, but he stopped, back flush with the wall.

"Not yet." House muttered, very aware of the feeling of Wilson's heart pounding in his chest, thumping out its rhythm into the palm of his hand from where he'd stopped him in his tracks. "Gotta think." He met Wilson's eyes, darker in the half light and dulled with concussion and pain but there was confusion there, his eyes reading his face and the line of his body as he traced the line of subtly shifted weight until with a dawning realisation he finally noticed what house had been aware of all this time they'd been talking and he stared with predictably fear tinged awareness at the smoke that was drifting in beneath the door.


	2. Chapter 2

House watched him fidget, hands alternating from sitting with barely controlled tension on his hips to tenderly probing the cut on the back of his head, all the while those dark and worried eyes fixed on the thickening air that was pooling around their ankles.

His ears had stopped ringing and it had taken them both some time to recognise the sound of far off screams and cries below them, echoing up the elevator shaft with the rising smoke. He'd looked at Wilson then, caught up the doleful stare that seemed to tug at his heart more than the sounds of anguish. He always took it personally, always invested himself to the extremes and House had spent far too many nights mopping up the damage of a patient's death, he could feel his desperation, read it in every tight line of his body as he tried to pace within their confines, breath short and sharp as he braced a clenched fist against the wall, the sounds of anguish perfectly punctuated by the flickering and unpredictable light that seemed at every second to be on the brink of failing.

He'd rolled his eyes as Wilson had punched at the alarm button, its perforated speaker as silent as House had predicted it to be. He'd had to physically stop him from attempting to open the doors, explaining with the air of one talking to someone mentally unstable that they were probably stuck between the floors, and he didn't fancy filling the already toxic air with a rushing influx of asphyxiating smoke.

Wilson had slouched off, as far as he could under the circumstances and now he stood leaning into the corner of the lift, chewing pensively on a thumbnail and flinching with every miniscule noise that filtered up towards them.

House prodded at the ceiling with his stick, some vain and foolish hope expecting a hidden panel to pop free and welcome them to rescue. He scanned the dim cell, eyes wide and alighting on every surface and corner waiting for the answer to appear.

Help wouldn't come.

He knew that.

He was right, whatever had happened below them was no accident, there was nothing he could remember that would cause that much damage, even the O2 tanks were stored and transported in such a way that should anything happen the most someone would get would be a decent singing and long wait for their eyebrows to grow back. He thought about the news report this morning, grunting in discomfort as he shifted his weight as he punished himself for not having paid more attention. So what that there had been information provided to the police. So what that they had already found two devices. So what that there were armed police on the way to the bus terminal and the airport had been put on alert. These things happened every day, the news was full of this crap every day and he was pretty damn perfect at being a nay saying doom mongerer without the added benefit of sketchy overhyped paranoia.

He'd been paying too much attention to figuring out when he'd be able to remove the slats from Wilson's bed.

They were on their own, whatever emergency services wouldn't be coming to the lift. Hell, they _were_ the emergency services. There would be too much panic, no room for thought to realise that 'Hey, I haven't seen those doors open for a while'.

"Shit." He muttered, allowing the full seriousness of their situation to settle it. The air between him and Wilson was misting, either that or he unwittingly cracked his own head on his unexpected trip to the floor.

"We've gotta get out of here." Wilson mumbled.

House fought the urge to roll his eyes and call him Captain Obvious.

"Even if we're between the floors we could still reach the doors, we could either climb up or drop down." He postulated, looking earnestly up into House's face.

"Gonna give me a leg up?" House quirked, swinging his cane and as he faced the reality that he was going to have to concede. He wafted his hand in front of his face to clear the air around him, the acrid taste of smoke cloying at his mouth.

"I'm serious." Wilson exclaimed. "It's not as if we can stay in here. I open the door, you hold it while I get the outer ones."

It would have been a much better convincing argument had he not stumbled forward the moment he pushed away from the wall, hand grasping and groping at House's shoulder as he lunged to catch him, the sudden and unexpected weight bringing them both to the floor and he had just enough presence of mind to cup his hand to the back of Wilson's head to shield it from another good blow as he full body slid down his chest, landing awkwardly with Wilson staring up at him in shock from where he'd come to rest half across his lap.

"Oh yeah, you're a real action hero." House muttered drily, yanking his leg out from under his weight, betraying himself and his bitterness with the gentle slide of his hand to Wilson's neck, careful not to jostle him as he swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat as his watched the flutter of his eyes. "Hey, come on." He snapped, all focus drawn to him as Wilson sobered before his eyes.

"Not my best moment." Wilson conceded, dragging himself ungracefully to his feet with much mussing of House's shirt as he leant heavily against him.

"You okay?" House looked at him, hand on his shoulder as he cast a fervent eye over the other man's face which hand rounded on him with its own expression of concern.

"Wow." Wilson brushed at his lab coat, straightening out no existing creases as he fought to school his expression. "Asking me if I'm okay? ...And all it took was a concussion and a burning elevator." He laughed awkwardly.

House paused, his hand frozen on Wilson's shoulder. "Not my best moment." He retorted slyly, a paltry attempt to maintain his composure. Wilson was looking at him with a strange intensity that rattled him and caused him to snatch his hand away, snapping his focus to the elevator doors.

"How about I pry and you hold?" He tried to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades, the point where he could feel Wilson's eyes on him as he dug his fingers into the soft rubber seam, coughing with exertion and smoke inhalation as he tugged and pulled until with a slow and grinding, juddering motion the doors slipped in their runs and the smoke came pouring in.

In years to come he would always remember that moment, no matter what happened afterwards, the twisting images of blood and charred remains, it would always be those terrifying moments when the light vanished from the room and the air was stolen from his lungs.

The heat that blasted up from the side of the shaft enveloped him in a fiery cloud, the light of the flames licking the bare industrial walls with a harrowing light as he fought to keep his grip on the door as his lungs exploded with choking agony.

His fingers slipped but the doors remained, and it took one precious moment for him to realise that Wilson had managed to wedge himself into the narrow gap that he'd afforded, pushing with his legs against the opposing door and together they worked to prise the opening wider.

The darkness was enveloping, all consuming in is visceral intensity. It tore at his throat, burned his eyes seized his lungs. He coughed, spluttering and choking as he pressed a sleeve against his face, trying in vain to suck in a measure of clean air through the material. He could hear Wilson, himself erupting into a fitful series of pained and hacking coughs. There was a grasping hand against his thigh, hand hot and heavy as it twisted its grip into his jeans and House felt a terrible surge of some untamed emotion as he realised just how terrified Wilson must have been to actually reach out for an anchor.

He forced himself to open his eyes, to bear them to the stinging cloud that billowed and snaked around them as they froze dumbly under the sudden onslaught.

'This was a fucking stupid idea'. House cursed himself, regretting immediately the very idea of trying to help themselves.

He chanced a look down, peering in the gap that the odd tilt of the lift had opened up. They were two and half floors up and he could just make out through squinted eyes the caved in remains of the doors that opened up into the lobby, the torn and jagged metal glinting in the light of the burning detritus that cluttered the pit of the shaft.

Abandoning his cane entirely he all but collapsed to knees, his hand reached out, blindly landing and staying pressed to the wild thump of his heart, an odd pin point of focus in his otherwise skewed world. The hand on his leg tightened and he heard his name choked out.

Of all the ridiculous whacked out situations they could have ever found themselves in, it couldn't possibly get any worse. It was like someone had put a list of Wilson's nerve shattering and all consuming, nightmare inducing fears in front of his eyes and the words 'claustrophobia' and 'fire' had been highlighted several times in different coloured markers.

"House?" harsh and rasping, he felt his name more in the vibration of his hand pressed against him than in the brittle crack of his tremulous voice.

There were screams and shouts floating up to meet them, chaos and fire and destruction heating the air inside the metal furnace they had trapped but all he could see was Wilson, all he could hear was the laboured and panicked breath and the fierce struggle he fought to keep himself calm.

"You're okay." He nearly had to shout the words to get them out. "You're fine." He coughed violently, like knives shredding his lungs. He clapped his hand to Wilson's face, part of him hoping he'd just see it as a cavalier half hearted effort at trying to comfort him, but for the most part he wished he'd read it deeper with the way he let his hand linger for longer than it should, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw as he pulled his hand away and turned his eyes back to the door.

Even at this moment he could bring himself to let his walls fall down.

Nudging at Wilson's leg he leant forward, the angle extreme and impossible to work at the outside door and his fingers cramped and screamed as he twisted and turned and ignored the blistering agony that was exploding in his leg, and the only thing that was keeping him sane, keeping him grounded was that hand on his leg, that tremulous link that make him work harder because damn it, if he couldn't get himself out, he was sure as hell going to get Wilson out.

Spots and stars in front of his eyes and his throat was torn as he tried to cry out, fingers stressed and damn near broken and then finally, wonderfully his superior strength gave in, the door gave way and he fell backwards as his hands slipped from their grip.

He flung his arm across his face and grabbed Wilson to pull him back as the back draft sucked the fiery air from beneath them past the door and out into the second floor corridor.

The tempest was followed by the sweetest scent of clean fresh air, blessed heart thumping relief that spilled through his veins like the light from the corridor permeating their little smoke filled cage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the reviews guys, its very kind and always a motivational bonus! :D**

"How do you do it House?"

He'd been standing in the doorway for a couple of minutes, he knew that because he'd spent the night ensconced on the couch listening to Wilson toss and turn, his dreams plagued by whatever phantom images that day had dredged from his traumatised mind until he'd woken with a start, his breathing laboured and easily heard from where House sat in the darkened lounge.

He looked up; turning his head slowly and raising his gaze to take in the mussed hair and clothes in disarray. He was mildly surprised that Wilson had even had the energy to change before collapsing into bed, his entire countenance had radiated lethargy when they had finally been given leave to go home, the cameras and news crews clogging up the parking lot behind the row of police tape and uniformed officers, their faces becoming illustrations for the evening news and late run prints of the evening press.

Wilson had showered, but House preferred the long slow soak of the tub, emptying the water four times before it finally stayed clear, the smoke and blood washed from his hands and face with methodical deliberate movements that served to distract him as he tried to turn his thoughts away from what he had witnessed.

_It was like some bizarre Freudian dream, a waking hallucination. _

_The entire corridor was deserted._

_Not just empty, but silent._

_He could hear himself breathe, less steady and more wary of the way his chest ached and itched from the inside. The smoke was thin in the air out here, lending a misty and greying quality, a stagnant dreamlike haze that captured and refracted the thin light that eked in through open doors. His hands were stiff and frozen where they'd curled around Wilson's arms, the man's forehead pressed firmly to the centre of his chest as he shook and trembled, the last vestiges of paralysing fear that had nearly crippled him at the crucial moment where House had had to damn near drag him from the lift doorway, his leg protesting from his own awkward jump and his eyes refusing to look anywhere other than Wilson's blank face. He certainly wasn't going to be looking down again anytime soon, into the black void of the lift shaft with its fire tinged recess, and he certainly wasn't going to admit to his own sudden fear of being sliced in half by a falling lift. Damn you Hollywood. _

_He stood that way for what felt like an hour, ignoring the pain in his leg, fighting the itch in his hands that made him want to thread his fingers through the hair that ruffled with every unsteady breath that shook his smoke damaged lungs, calming the insistent urge to offer uncharacteristic platitudes of comfort. He'd spent years fighting it, what was another five minutes._

_There was no alarm. This was what struck him as odd._

_It should have been screaming off the walls by now with the amount of smoke that was pouring up and into the corridor, pooling and crawling along the ceiling in expanding dark waves._

_He pushed Wilson back and motioned towards the staircase with his head. He let the wavering stare that heated his face as it ran over him wash through him with the residual lingering relief of being out of immediate danger. Never mind that they were about to meet the after effects head on._

_The stairwell was dark, lit only by the emergency lighting that dimly infused the hazy darkened air. House winced, how long had it been since he'd taken the stairs? His movement was awkward, each step its own particular challenge as he tried to remember to physics of simply walking down the stairs, his hand holding on to the banister for dear life._

_Each step down brought warmer air into their faces, like a sickly midsummer wind in some stagnant third world hell hole finding its insidious way into every fold of their clothes, saturating them with its fetid stink._

_The door was hanging from its hinges at the bottom, blackened and charred and edged with licking flames so that they had to cross the threshold sideways, just in time to get a thorough drenching from a fire hose._

_House spluttered, breath held in surprise at the sudden blast of freezing water drenching through his clothes, dripping from his hair, droplets clinging to his eyelashes so his had to blink and wipe his face before he could look up and focus._

_Wilson swore lowly beside him, his own hand hovering from where it had wiped at his face, eyes unflinching and opened wide at the utter carnage that spread out before them._

He'd sat up watching the news. Frenzied reports of a city under siege, a well planned and co-ordinated attack, defiantly clever in its motives.

They had taken out the most publicly accessible places first, a chain of explosions that had rocked malls, colleges, tourist attractions, places impossible to screen with any sort of high level security due to the constant ebb and flow of people that swarmed and congregated such areas. And then afterwards, in the ensuing panic, they had taken out the means with which to help. Fire stations, local precincts and hospitals.

Thirty two locations in all. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people injured or dead. And no word yet on who was responsible.

House turned his darkened gaze back to the television where some young blonde reporter was yelling into the mike, her hair whipping in the rain that had started to pour, its effect present and hammering on the window lending credence to the images on the screen.

_Absolute chaos. The noise hit them like walking into a wall of sound._

"How do you just switch off?" Wilson accused, hands on his hips as he moved into House's peripheral vision.

He twirled his cane, fingers familiar with the warmth within the wood.

"Switching off would mean I could sleep." He muttered lightly, he didn't know why he said it, maybe to stave off Wilson's eventual tirade that he'd heard a thousand times before, spitefully bringing up that the other man had just awoken from a sleep that he'd had no problem falling into.

Not that Wilson had really slept, he couldn't call the restless twitching limbs and the pained frown that lined his face any sort of semblance of peace. But he could still remind him of it, could pretend that it had nothing to do with having a head injury, that it was his choice. But it would also mean admitting that he had watched him sleep, had stood in the doorway and measured every breath he'd taken.

_Slow motion._

_Stepping over a chunk of the reception desk, his cane slipping in a puddle of something oozing out from beneath the wooden panel._

_Blood on Chase's face, in Cameron's hair. Looking up at him with wild eyes._

"You haven't said anything since we came home." Wilson pointed out.

House wanted to ask why that mattered, it wasn't as though Wilson had been in any fit state to hold a coherent conversation. What would he say anyway?

He'd only been allowed to leave because they were both fit to drop, relentless hours of blood and gore passing before his eyes until he couldn't remember a single face of one of the victims before him, like meat on a butcher's block, as soon as he was done with one he was handed another.

_Waves of them, ambulances pulled up around back, their lights flashing and throwing coloured shadows against the wall where the crowds blocked their light. _

_They were operating in the parking lot._

House sighed and tossed his cane onto the other sofa. He used the arm of the couch to drag himself up and limped towards the kitchen, eyes on the coffee that hadn't quite boiled dry.

"I told Cuddy I'd go back as soon as you were up." He said, reaching for a mug and pouring the remains of the triple strength concoction he'd created earlier on that night.

He was being obtuse and he knew it, he'd refused to speak to Wilson in the car on the way home, despite it having taken them over an hour just to get out of the parking lot.

_Another pair of gloves peeled off and discarded in the corner, health and safety be damned, they'd done away with it hours ago, some having given up on the gloves entirely as they hung coloured tags around necks, green meant they could stand to be seen last, orange was for those who'd live, red for those who had a few hours._

_Those red tags piled up throughout the day, stacked on the counter when they were no longer needed, swapped for black and shipped downstairs._

"Fine." Wilson sighed. "I'll get dressed."

House downed the rest of his coffee, lips smacking against the taste, it tasted acrid. Reminded him of smoke. "You're to stay here." He dropped the mug into the sink.

"What?" cue Wilson's patented look of confusion.

"Cuddy's orders." He bit back. "You got yourself a head injury there. I just had to stay long enough to make sure you didn't die in your sleep." He limped his way back to the sofa, throwing himself down and reaching for his sneakers.

"I'm going with you." Wilson argued.

"You lost consciousness." He reminded him, gut clenched. "Got some bad boy stitches and a scar to show to the ladies." He tugged on his sneaker.

_He'd found him in one of the corridors by chance, struggling to walk against the tide of chaotic milling, nurses scrambling and orders being barked. And there he was, perched on the edge of a bed that he was sharing with a soot coloured man, a nurse holding a compress to the back of his head and Cuddy standing with a stern fix to her body._

_He'd passed out, keeled over backwards and only just saved from another blow to the head by Cameron who had happened to be standing next to him._

_Cuddy gave the order to take him home, they didn't have a bed to spare, a superficial excuse that he needed to be watched over that was clearly code for 'you look like shit and you need to rest'._

_He'd gotten Cameron to do the stitches. His hands shook too much. _

"I'm fine."

"No you're not." House countered. He'd seen the look in Wilson's eyes. He really did care too much, couldn't turn that switch in his brain that stopped him from becoming so emotionally involved.

"I'm coming with you." Wilson shook his head, scrubbing at his face which looked even more tired than when he'd stumbled through the living room door.

"You're dead on your feet." House argued.

"And you're not?" arm's spread wide. "How long have you been up?"

He'd lost count. It had been the twenty four hour mark when they'd actually left the hospital, faces downturned and trying to ignore the fact that people were still coming in, news that the other hospital had been so damaged that they'd had to shut their doors, everything was coming in to them, people were still being dragged out from the impact zones.

"You're not going Wilson. You're supposed to be resting." He didn't really have the strength to argue, but if he showed up with Wilson staggering around Cuddy would have his ass. "Besides, I don't think your delicate sensibilities could handle it." He grabbed his cane from the other chair, letting his weight fall on it for one blissful moment of reprieve.

Wilson looked at him sternly. "I feel fine, I don't even have a headache. I didn't faint, i didn't get the vapours. I just want to help and do my job."

"And the deer in the headlights look when i found you?" He looked around for his jacket.

"So what now? I can't take a moment to collect myself?" He exclaimed.

"Just stay home." House muttered. "No-one needs a doctor that looks more terrified than they are."

He might as well have slapped him for the same looked he'd have on his face. Wilson spluttered, his eyes hardening. "Are you serious?" he straightened, hands on hips. "We can't all be like you House." He pointed towards the TV where a visceral multicoloured montage of video and picture was playing, tears and blood and horror. "We can't all ignore our basic instincts." He looked momentarily triumphant as a the screen was filled with an image of Chase, his scrubs stained and hands cracking with dried blood as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, his eyes red. "You can say what you want House, but you can't tell me you don't feel anything, that you weren't scared." He looked at him with something akin to pity before he turned away.

Something snapped in House, his blood suddenly on fire and rushing in his ears. "Scared!" Wilson stopped on his way back to his room. "I was fucking terrified."

Wilson turned, brows knotted in a frown at his sudden outburst.

'Stop' his own mind was shouting at him.

"Not for that." He pointed at the television. "Not for those hapless idiots. For you." He shifted his grip on the cane, his knuckles white.

Wilson seemed frozen, bewildered stare fixed on his face.

"I can't let you go back into that when I'm the one who'll have to clean up the mess later." He looked away from the impact his words left on Wilson's face. "I want you here, I want you safe." The words reverberated around the room until the echo was replaced by the low pitch of the news channel.

"House?" There was an odd timbre to Wilson's voice.

"They were an accident. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time." He sighed heavily. "We weren't. We were targeted. You think I'm going to let you walk back into that kind of risk." The presenter perfectly illustrated his point as she reiterated the threat of following attacks after a credible tip off had been phoned in. "Stay here." It almost sounded like he was asking.

He really wished Wilson wouldn't look at him like that, the tilt of his head and that wonderful open look on his face as he assessed him. He'd said too much.

_He'd taken his lab coat from him, sliding it off his shoulders and down his arms, the thing was a mess. He was half tempted just to throw it in the bin nearby and be done with it, but he knew how pissy Wilson could get about these things, so instead he folded it, pausing for a moment as he reached for the handle of the back seat. Blood and soot had combined to obscure part of his name, the needlework embellishment cut down to just his first name._

_James._

_The sight of it struck him in the chest. Made his heart pause._

_How long had they hid behind the impersonal names, when had he become so afraid of all boundaries. _

_He looked at the passenger seat where Wilson sat with his hand covering his face, shielding himself from the glare of the news crews' lights. He looked so tired, so vulnerable._

House felt the name press against his teeth, perched on the edge of his tongue. If he could say it then he would know, he knew that with the one utterance of that never used word he could convey without having to explain just why it was he couldn't let him walk out of the door.

To say it would be to admit he cared.

To say it would be to fall.

He bit his tongue and turned, making sure the door slammed behind him as he left.


	4. Chapter 4

The forty eight hour mark hit him hard and he stared long and hard at the pill in his hand before he swallowed it, chasing it down with scalding bitter coffee. He stared at Chase as he slept at the table, head pillowed on folded arms with Foreman passed out in the chair beside him.

He wondered what he was still doing there.

Well, he knew exactly what he was still doing there; he was just trying his best to ignore it.

It wasn't as though he was needed in particular, there wasn't much cause for a diagnostician and he wasn't allowed to assist with any surgeries. His involvement so far had been pretty rudimentary, patching and shipping, silently working on people too shell shocked and numbed to speak. As the day wore on a desperate air seemed to take over the staff, they were getting tired, eyes were starting to darken and droop and they were far from reaching the light at the end of the tunnel.

The doctor's lounge was full so they had retreated to his office, too tired to hide anywhere else, not tired enough to keep glancing up at every figure that hurried past the glass wall.

Cuddy had told him hours ago that Wilson was here, that he was looking for him.

House knew he should have brought the car, left Wilson with the only option of hailing a cab which would have been nigh on impossible. He'd been a little in awe of the fact that he'd even managed to make it through the traffic, it had taken House nearly two hours on his bike to manoeuvre through the gridlocked streets.

He should have gone to Wilson's office. He wouldn't think to look there.

He took another long swallow of coffee, eyes on Chase as he stirred but didn't wake.

He could still see the look on Wilson's face every time he closed his eyes, the same look that made his hands itch with the want to just reach out and...touch.

The TV in the corner of the room had been muted but the live feed still spilled its harsh imagery over its sleeping incumbents. The hellfire had spread, Manhattan had taken a hit, as had Boston and Washington. Wave after wave of carnage and terror locking down city centres and sending its inhabitants screaming into the streets. Air travel had been shut down, all airports on lockdown and mass evacuations of every large scale structure of the eastern seaboard had led to the greatest panic America had ever seen on its home turf.

And only thirteen arrests. Thirteen individuals who had been caught thus far, their names and faces and their cause still held from the public eye. Everyone on edge. Everyone eyeing each other with distrust.

He sat for ten minutes, taking the weight off his leg but not daring to close his eyes, no sleep was better than some sleep at this stage, if he closed his eyes now they have to drag him kicking and screaming from the office.

He shouldn't have said a thing. Shouldn't have let himself snap. But he'd still had the image of that corridor in his mind, the way he'd held out his arms as you would to a child and he'd promised he wouldn't let him fall.

He'd never been the one for false platitudes, for simpering morale boosting cajoling, but he'd quietly whispered then that they were safe, that _he_ was safe. Useless nonsense words that crept from his lips as Wilson had rocked forward, resting his head against his chest as his breath heated the air between them, every inhalation like fire in his lungs, and he'd felt his heart nearly break to see him like that.

He still ached, but he couldn't be sure whether it was still from the smoke, or from the gut wrenching twisting feeling that he had left himself open to a terrible blow.

"House?" Cuddy was leaning around the door, eyes dull and skin pale. She approached him slowly, easing herself down onto the couch and sitting for a long moment with her head propped on her hands, elbows on knees. He offered her his coffee and she took it without comment, handing it back with a wince as the taste of burnt beans hit her tongue.

"They need you guys back downstairs." She said at length. "Swapsies?" she looked unsteadily up him and House wondered if she'd slept at all, she looked about as bad as he felt. She fell back into the soft back of the couch, a sigh of relief leaving her dry and cracked lips as she closed her eyes.

He wasn't going to get another word out of her anytime soon.

Chase was easy to wake, just a hand on his shoulder and he snapped upright, face lax with latent sleep. Foreman however was one of those guys that you had to jostle for five minutes until he finally conceded and kept his eyes open for longer than two seconds.

They'd only been back on their feet for ten minutes until the ever present police presence called for another evacuation of the building. A groan of frustration rose from the staff and heads were hung until with weary hands and heavy steps they began to gather up their charges and march them out in slow formation. House fumed silently, whoever kept ordering these damned evacuations clearly had no idea how hospitals worked, the sheer enormity and disruption that was caused. He held the door to one of the procedure rooms as its occupant was wheeled out on the bed, the technician adjusting the settings on the beds battery, most likely only just finished recharging after the last all out fiasco.

Outside in the parking lot it was still raining, a sea of make shift umbrellas created with blankets and sheets, doctors handing over their own lab coats to wrap around their patients, their faces screwed up against the wind and the rain, perfect media fodder for the hordes still camped out at the rear entrance, wet skin glistening and shining in the ever present throb of emergency lights. They were ferried and herded further away from the building, groups drifting off and taking shelter under whatever tree or smoking shelter they could find.

House turned back to face the hospital. There were people inside that wouldn't be able to leave, whatever unlucky sod stuck in surgery would be trapped until they were forcibly removed or the building came down around their heads.

Hit bit down on his tongue, staring stoically ahead, too afraid to turn and scan the crowds for his face, afraid that he would catch his eye, afraid that he wouldn't be able to see him at all.

He was shooed further back by an officer telling him to retreat behind the line being rolled out. He found the remnants of his team shivering beneath one of the trees with Cuddy huddled next to Cameron, the two women holding each other in an odd sort of comforting and supportive embrace. He should send them home, give them the order to rest, but he knew they weren't about to listen to him, he wouldn't listen to him if he were them.

"This is a fucking joke." Chase muttered, arms folded and teeth chattering as he glared out at the hospital. "Keep dragging us out here, not like our job hasn't been hard enough."

"They're just doing their job." House said aimlessly, he gaze drawn to the people around him, unaware of the frown and glances his uncharacteristically genial comment. He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing at his thigh and switching his cane to his other hand, the temptation to just sit down where he stood was almost overwhelming.

He wanted desperately to be home, wanted his bed and his duvet, wanted to turn off the lights and curl up tight and listen to the rain beat against the window. He wanted Wilson there with him, wanted to curl his arm around his chest and press his face to the back of his neck.

He shook his head, dispelling the image from his mind and dragging him back to his present situation. And suddenly he was there.

Right in front of him.

His hair dripping into his eyes, the borrowed scrubs already soaked at the shoulders. He moved to stand beside him, silently watching the scene with the rest of them, their combined exhaustion hanging over them like a cloud and acting as a barrier to anybody looking to join them in their space beneath the tree.

The minutes seemed to last for hours with him by his side, every now and then one of them would shift their weight and their arms would brush, a shared warmth bringing momentary comfort along with a shiver that raced along his skin.

Foil blankets were being handed out, thrown in great handfuls into the crowds and pulled tight around shoulders. House didn't take one, something inside him rebelling at the idea of showing any sort of weakness, but it didn't stop him from reaching over and tugging up the edge of the one that had been wrapped around Cuddy and Cameron.

Time slipped by, each second was wasted time, made worse by the mere fact that they were just _waiting_, that they had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. Chase had moved back to the trunk of the tree, his arms tucked tightly across his chest, sleeping standing up.

"Can we talk?" Wilson's voice was low, almost swallowed in the muggy, wet air and House wondered how long he'd been working up the nerve just to utter those three words.

He could think of a number of excuses, but none of them mattered, not when Wilson was already walking off, leaving the shelter of the tree and standing uncaring under the deluge while he waited for house to follow on unsteady and exhausted legs, his cane sinking into the softened ground.

The side of the radiology department was deserted and they found themselves in the lee of the wind, the chill taken out of the air along with the general noise and confusion that was escalating from the crowd.

House leant against the wall, stopping the rain that had begun to run between his shoulder blades, his shirt sticking to him in an uncomfortable manner. He wished he'd accepted the offer of scrubs when his shirt had become so encrusted with dirt and blood that it was almost obscene.

"I'm sorry House." Wilson started. He wasn't looking at House, and he was doing that odd shifting movement he did when he was fighting some sort of internal battle.

House choked back a laugh, suddenly hating his pathetic actions over the last two days. "What the hell are _you_ apologising for?" He couldn't keep the self deprecation mocking tone from his voice.

Wilson looked up at him through his dripping fringe, brown eyes hurt and confused. "I just thought that..." he flapped his arms for a moment. "I don't know, I guess I just figured that I didn't handle myself very well the other day and that maybe I'd made you uncomfortable..."

"Jesus Wilson, seriously?" His exclamation made Wilson jump, his mouth shutting with an audible snap. "You just don't get it do you?" he actually laughed then, couldn't believe he'd been worrying about whether Wilson had him figured out, whether he'd blown his own cover.

"I get it House, trust me, I get it." He was back to staring at the floor again, the smile sliding from House's face as he heard the weary ache in Wilson's face.

The silence between them was deafening with Wilson neither explaining his remark and House not asking for an explanation. The rain seemed to thunder down around them unheeded, bouncing on the asphalt and soaking them to the bone. Maybe he would be taking those scrubs after all.

He tipped his head back, looking up into the deluge.

This was why he never let himself reveal his inner thoughts, it almost always came back to bite him in the ass. "Look, Wilson..."

"Please don't" Wilson hushed him, his hand held out as though to stave off whatever verbal reprimand he might have had in order. "Please don't come up with some sort of crappy, patronising excuse meant to ridicule me and absolve you of your ...your..." He huffed, the wind taken out of his sails and there was an odd look on his face that House had never seen before as he stepped forward, his hand pushing the hair back from his eyes and suddenly his was the only thing in House's vision, heart hammering in his throat and sudden bright euphoria because just as soon as the idea of his illicit desires never coming to fruition had settled in his mind, Wilson had kissed him, had reached up, hand on the back of his neck as the fireworks exploded behind his eyes.

He felt time stop. His breath held as he brought his hand up to his cheek, two days of stubble scratching his palm, his touch serving as some sort of catalyst, making Wilson open up to him and finally he could _taste_ him.

It couldn't be real.

He had to be asleep somewhere. Maybe he was still on the couch in his office, eyes closed and dreaming, because he couldn't believe that he was here, right now, the craving of having that body pressed up against him suddenly sated, the desire to know what those lips would feel like against his fulfilled. It felt like absolution, like everything that had happened over the last two days could be wiped clean with one simple act. He breathed him in, his hand releasing its grip on his cane and settling instead against his back, shaking madly with his own audacity.

There was a noisy blip, a burst from one of the patrol cars and a sharp cry giving the all clear.

It was all that was needed to open a gulf between them. To break them apart and let the chilled air seep back and claim the warmth that had filled the space where they had touched.

Breaths heavy in the void between them, Wilson's fingers pressed lightly to his lips, his eyes unfocused and staring inwards.

He shook his head, admittance of a transgression, a muttered apology, fast and hurried with a dispiriting vehemence and he was gone, had turned and left with such speed that House may as well assume that he had run.

He stayed until his heart calmed, until he no longer struggled to breathe, until the rain had washed the taste of him from his lips, and then he bent, slow and steady to retrieve his cane. Testing his step before he had the confidence to walk with purpose back towards where the masses were slowly making their way back in.

He didn't see Wilson again that night.


	5. Chapter 5

They were taking it in shifts to sleep, six hours of down time per team while the never ending task of the herculean clean up was organised and set underway. The foyer had begun to be cleared, the blood washed from the floor and the rubble brushed away. Those people with the most superficial of wounds had been dealt with quickly and sent off with directions to see their local practitioner.

But the corridors still heaved, every bed crammed and people camped out in the corridors, moans and whines of pain and frustration disturbing the odd hush that had descended over the hospital, the lights had been set to half illumination in an attempt to let those unfortunate to have to wait out in the halls more comfortable.

Chase sighed passionately and braced his hands on the wall as he let his head fall forward, the hot cascade of steaming water washing away the remains of the day.

He echoed everyone's sentiments, the men's locker room silent but for the quiet noise of appreciation of finally finding some reprieve from the chaos that had ruined their hospital, the air thick with steam as they simply took the time to let the water soak out the tension that had frozen their tired bodies into strained bundles of nerves.

House accepted the tube of shower gel that was being relayed over the chest high walls that separated the shower stalls, handing it over to Foreman as he rubbed the sickly smelling liquid into his hair, over his face, washing away the grim feeling of being overworked and undernourished. He was dying for a coffee, would chew off his right arm to actually sit down to eat, to take his time rather than half-heartedly chewing on whatever tasteless sandwich he ate to try and dispel the lingering sour taste that cloyed at his mouth, the whispering smoke having been driven away with whatever fans they could find, but the smell of it still clung to the blinds, the couches, their clothes, pervading their mouths and wiping out their sense of smell.

He tried not to think of Wilson, hadn't dared to close his eyes like the others hand, to take whatever snatched moments they could to lean heavily into a seat and let their eyes drift close. There were people sleeping everywhere, curled up on tables, _under_ tables, propped up against plant pots. They'd lost the on call rooms hours ago when it became necessary to use the beds. They were back to using their offices, blinds snapped closed to keep the light from the corridors keeping them awake, not that it would matter at this stage.

He hadn't slept for nearly sixty hours.

Twenty years ago this wouldn't be a problem, hell, even ten years ago, but not now, not with his leg a constant burning pain that spasmed and shook with each weary step he took, his hand blistered and raw from leaning on his cane. He was too old for this game. But at least he'd held his own against the likes of Chase, the virtues of youth forgotten and beaten out of him after countless surgeries and lives lost under his hands. He'd been pulled from the OR sometime in the early morning after he'd been unable to stop his hands from shaking, but he'd refused to go home, to take the time he'd been told to rest and instead joined the rest of them in the melee of red and green tag victims, staunching blood flow, stitching up lacerations and most importantly, telling these people that they were going to be alright.

And now they had six hours.

Six wonderful, blissful hours promised to them with no disturbances, no heads around doors asking for their presences, they were to go to the office and put their heads down.

House knocked off the shower, spitting the water from his lips and grabbing the towel draped over the short door. The fresh scrubs felt amazing, clean and dry against his skin. It was almost as good as it would feel to slide into his own bed at the end of this whole ordeal.

They walked up together, the lifts still out of order which filled him with a conflicted internal war. On the one hand he hated the inconvenience of having to painfully climb the stairs, biting his lip as he tried to ignore how the rest of his team had slowed so as not to leave him behind, but on the other hand, he just didn't know if he was ready to step back into an elevator. The door of the broken cart they had ridden was still wedged open, the uneven canted floor and smoked stained walls still visible behind the ribbons of police tape that had been plastered across the gaping doorway.

He paused for a moment, dragging his feet as he eyed the black hole that he had been trapped in.

If he held his breath he could feel the breathless sting of the smoke that had burnt in his lungs. Could feel the weight of Wilson's hands clasped to his shirt, twisting it in his grip as he fought to keep a grip on himself.

He tore his eyes away and trailed forlornly after his team. He shook his head, trying to dispel the images that were always just behind his eyes whenever they fluttered with exhaustion.

He hated the way he couldn't stop thinking about him despite the colourful display of distractions that had kept them so busy, head bent upon his work with barely enough time to look up let alone search the crowd for that face. So seek out that steady gaze and read him openly.

He'd left though.

Bereft and sodden in the rain with the taste of him still lingering on his lips.

If he'd been any less sane he might have thought he'd imagined it, but the simple fact that he hadn't seen the other man had driven home the truth a lot harder than any sort of physical evidence could have. He'd seen not hide nor hair of him, hadn't heard a whisper of his voice and there had been no second hand message that he was looking for him.

His heart shouldn't sink so much. It was nothing he hadn't expected.

Cuddy caught up with him just before he reached the office, her eyes dull despite just having come off her scheduled rest. She pressed a bottle into his hand, the weight and feel so utterly familiar that had he been a weaker man he would have broken down in tears. He looked down at the unmarked label, realising that she had obviously swiped the pills from the pharmacy without a word or reason. It wasn't like anyone was keeping tabs right now.

It was exactly what he needed and his immediate thought went to just how many he could take and still be okay to work in six hours time. He thanked her quietly, unsure how to convey without destroying his reputation his utter gratitude to her in that moment. She just shrugged and turned away as though it was nothing, that the very fact that during the worst crisis the hospital had ever seen she had still spared a moment's thought for him, had gone out of her way to dupe the pharmacist on duty into handing over a full prescription was of no real consequence, was the least that she could do for him.

He waited only a few seconds for her to turn her back before he was prising the lid from the bottle, shaking out two pills into the palm of his hand and tossing them back without a thought. He closed his eyes and for the first time spared a moment to think that maybe things were getting better. He was about to get his head down for some much needed sleep and it would only take about ten minutes for the Vicodin to kick in.

He paused with his hand on the door, one part of his mind caught on the action of his team distributing the sofa's back cushions between themselves and the another part suddenly aware of the light that was seeping out from beneath the door to Wilson's office.

He was probably asleep. It wouldn't be the first time he'd drifted off with the light on. It was one thing he'd always envied, his propensity to drop off with lights on and TV blaring, the man could fall asleep in a club if he fancied.

House sighed and let his grip on the handle fall lax.

Five minutes. If that. Five minutes just to break the ice and absolve Wilson of his fears before they had to confront each other at home.

Five minutes and then he could sleep.

He knocked lightly on the door, pushing at it with the end of his cane until it expanded his view to take in the anally clean office.

Wilson was sat at his desk.

It signified something, that he had seated himself at the place of his work, at the position where he had to take everything seriously. After all, there was a couch in his office for a reason.

"Wilson?"

He didn't look up, instead he scrubbed at his face with his hands. "Not now House." God, he'd never heard him sound so tired and defeated. "Please."

House looked at him, at the way he wouldn't meet his eye.

"I didn't come to start anything Wilson, I'm too tired to be pithy." He breathed in hard, eyes drifting over to the couch, its plump cushions calling to him like a sirens song. "I just came to say that it's been a fucked up couple of days and you can stop beating yourself up now. I get it, I understand." He rubbed his hand where the cane had rubbed the skin raw. "So let's just avoid the inevitable procession of guilt and self doubt you'll inevitably throw yourself under and call it what it was, just some post traumatic affirmation. It's fine."

There, he'd said his piece, hollow as it was he had lain down the groundwork to allow Wilson to gloss over the whole ordeal without having to explain to House with the goddamn puppy dog eyes and his false and ingratiating excuses that would no doubt break his carefully guarded heart.

He hovered for a second, expecting Wilson to say something, to lift his eyes from the desk and actually turn his face toward him.

But he said nothing. Didn't bring his gaze to meet his.

Not that it mattered.

Not that he should care.

He had some hard earned down time to get acquainted with. He turned and pulled the door shut behind him, the familiar latch of the door settling stirring something final within him.

It wouldn't be any harder than before.

Two painful, faltering, tired steps before the door was ripped open.

"Is that it?" He sounded hurt. Or maybe House wanted him to sound hurt. "That's all you have to say?"

He turned and immediately wished he hadn't. He'd forgotten just how disarming it was to be on the receiving end of one of those passionate stares. "What do you want me to say?"

Wilson balked. "God House, I don't know." There was a searching look to his suddenly fervent gaze. "I just...I mean, I thought you'd at least have something more."

He couldn't talk about it. It would kill him right now to even attempt this sort of discussion.

"I have six hours Wilson." He didn't even need to try and make himself sound desperate.

The silence stretched between them, tangible and fragile until broken.

"You kissed me too." His words were whispered yet they somehow seemed to echo inside his mind, of course Wilson would have had the presence of mind to focus on that instead of the rather delicate predicament he'd managed to put them in.

House became very aware of the knot of nurses that had used the shelter of their station to put their heads down.

Okay, maybe it would be ten minutes.

He motioned for Wilson to back into his office and gave a quick glance around to see if anyone had heard the other man's low admission. Chances were nobody would have even had the presence of mind to eavesdrop but it was precisely this sort of thing that would explode through the rumour mill as soon as things died down.

He snapped the door shut and bit his lip, no idea where to start.

"We could have died. " Wilson said softly, saving him from awkwardly grasping for something to say. "We nearly did." He was staring at the floor, his words the practise echo of recorded sentiments that had no doubt been playing through his head since the world had been ripped out from under them. Literally.

"And not just the accepted risk that comes with surgery or procedures," He rattled on. "If we had left the office just one minute earlier, if that lift had already been at our floor." He was shaking.

"Yes Wilson, fate is a fickle mistress. But a lot of people can say that, doesn't have to be something you need to dissect. We didn't die, didn't even get hurt. Well, apart from..." He motioned to the back of his head, finally drawing Wilson's eye.

"I didn't want you to come back either." Wilson admitted lowly, his hesitance written plainly on his face as he alluded to House's outburst in their home.

House felt his cheeks colour, glad that the office was only lit with the sullen light from the standing lamp.

"I didn't want to read about you in the news. Didn't want some phone call in the middle of the night." He flinched as though just saying the words had hurt him.

"So you came back and put yourself in the thick of it." House muttered, trying not to reveal just how much that had pissed him off.

"I had to come back, had to be where you were. I...I've..." He seemed to choke on his words, swallowing thickly around his admission. "I've always had to be where you were."

Those words hit House square in the chest, like getting punched and it left his breath with little air.

What the hell were they doing?

"Don't say something you're going to regret Wilson." He could feel the glower in his stare, hating himself for saying those words when it seemed like he was being offered everything up on a plate, a bright and shiny package wrapped up with a neat bow and delivered to him just when he had given up on any shred of hope that had dared to crawl out of his depraved mind. Because it didn't matter what Wilson was saying right now, it couldn't matter. Because it would ultimately turn to dust. Nothing good that ever came to him ever lasted.

"Regret?" Wilson asked him, his face blank.

"Yes Wilson, regret." He tried to put strength into his voice but instead it came out defeated. "Give it a couple of days, a good night's sleep. You'll feel differently, I promise you." He reached for the handle again. "Don't worry. I won't hold it against you." There, that sounded more like him, a little more cavalier to hide the ache in his words.

"What if I don't?" Wilson was looking at him again, holding his eyes and he couldn't pull away from that open, earnest look if his tried. His heart leapt as he stepped forward.

He should leave, he should turn around and just get out of there.

"What if I've always felt like this?"

He'd always wanted to hear him say that, so why was he so terrified, why couldn't he stop his hands from shaking where they were clasped at his sides.

"What then?"

He couldn't answer him, couldn't even turn away, wouldn't have even had room to open the door now they were stood so close and House could swear his heart would stop, couldn't possibly last and how could Wilson not hear its incessant hammering against his chest.

"I can't lose you." He whispered, betraying himself with his ultimate fear, maybe if he could make him understand then he could avoid the inevitable fall. "Any one else Wilson, but I can't lose you. Please." His breath shook at the feel of his cane pulled gently from his grip, didn't look down as it clattered to the floor and its support and strength replaced with the unsure grip of a hand curling around his own.

"You can't lose me. " He was so close, it was too real, could feel his breath ghosting over his lips. "I will never leave. You know this."

He was lost, falling into the abyss as his eyes fluttered close, one final and crushing words leaving his lips, a plea, a confession that revealed so much more that he ever should have lain bare. "James."

It was all that was needed to break the wall, to let himself give in, to damn the consequences and give up the fight that he had so valiantly contained for longer than he could remember. His finger's threading into soft hair, the taste of them combined melting into his tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Huge, massive thanks to all the reviews so far. x**

The door was hard against his back, the handle nudging and digging into his side but he didn't care, not when Wilson had his hand pressed to his chest, right over his heart as though drawn to it on instinct, his fingers tight in the hair at the nape up his neck, his body pressed up against his as he pushed up into their kiss, pulling him down into the hot and heavy thrill of being able to recapture those lips that had held his mind enslaved, to illicit a sharp gasp and a subtle moan as he closed his arm around Wilson's waist, dragging him closer and leaving no space for uncertainty to come between them.

The pills were starting to kick in and he sighed into the wet heat as he ran his tongue along Wilson's lip, smiling at the shiver that ran through his body. The sound of the lock falling into place reverberated in his brain with a gut wrenching sense of finality. He could have laughed, probably should have to lighten the mood, feeling like a kid all over again. But he wasn't the only one trembling, and it was only because this _mattered_, that it was everything that he had craved, that he couldn't bring himself to alleviate his irrational nervousness.

It should have felt wrong.

It should have felt like a violation of the friendship that they had worked on for so many years. But how could it be wrong when Wilson whispered his name against his lips, breath trembling as House ran his hand along his back, long and slow beneath his shirt and his stomach jolted with the sudden and irrepressible surge of arousal that pooled low in his body at finally feeling the smooth expanse of achingly soft skin beneath his touch.

It wasn't enough.

There was no fight as he pushed away from the door, his hands pulling at the uniformed shirt, gripping the hem and dragging it up, breaking them apart for only a moment as he cast it aside. It felt incredible, having him in his arms.

The couch knocked the back of his legs and there was an awkward moment as they struggled not to fall as they found themselves horizontal, their weight falling back into the invitingly soft cushions and House took the opportunity of their shifting together to press his mouth to Wilson's neck, the choked sigh he produced swimming hotly against his ear as Wilson dropped his cheek to rest against House's hair, the muscles beneath his hands tense and shifting under the strain of holding himself up.

He could feel Wilson's pulse racing under his tongue, threading his fingers into thick hair and turning him back into his kiss, pulling him down so he could feel his weight pressing him down.

It was perfect.

He couldn't do it.

"Wait." House let his head fall back, "Stop." He hated himself already. He screwed his eyes shut so he didn't have to see the confusion on Wilson's face. He owed him so much more than this. "We shouldn't." His throat was dry, his hands drifting slowly around Wilson's waist, coming to rest on his hips, the couch vibrating with the transferred strain that shook Wilson's body as he held himself above House.

There was a moment of silence, drawn out and filled with a cold sort of dread before Wilson drew back, sitting back against the other arm of the couch as his eyes glazed over and he turned his face away, shoulders hunched forward and looking deeply uncomfortable. "I..." He frowned, eyes on the discarded scrubs top.

"I swear to God, if you say you're sorry..." He let the threat hang, interrupting his inevitable self flagellation. He winced as he sat up, uncomfortably adjusting himself and wincing as his foot connected with the floor. He sighed heavily, eyes aching every time he blinked.

He'd already thrown caution to the wind, had abandoned whatever carefully constructed walls he'd used to hide behind, had proved beyond a doubt that his heart beat the same as anyone's. Compassion was hard. The one thing he'd never been able to show, had always been beaten into him as a weakness. But this was Wilson, this was _James_.

He shifted, rising up onto his knees and bringing them close as he reached out, his fingers grazing the line of Wilson's cheek, holding him as he turned his face so their lips could meet, soft and hesitant, different to the hurried and frenzied kisses of only moments ago. "Not here." He whispered, his quiet words spilling out across lips and breathed in.

There was a promise in his excuse, although what he alluded to he couldn't say, didn't know what the end of this day could possibly bring or what assurances he might be able to swear. But he wanted more than just a quick fumble on a couch where anybody could interrupt them. He wanted sheets, and space, and to thread his fingers through Wilson's as he held him down, his mouth open and hot against his neck.

He wanted years of pent up frustration finally coming to fruition to actually _mean_ something.

He was useless with words, hopelessly uncoordinated with his emotions and the concept of finding the balls to voice them. His actions had always spoken louder.

He'd never wanted to be ensconced on his couch so much in his life, to know that the door was locked and the phone of the hook. An entire day off and the chance to lie in seemed like a torturous dream that was being held just out of reach, kept at bay by what seemed like endless hours filled with muscle memory procedure.

He had no idea when they'd be able to leave, and the knowledge of that almost weakened his resolve. He wiped a hand over his face and noticed the clock in the half light reminding him that he now had five and a half hours left in which to capture as much sleep as he could.

Wilson still wouldn't look at him.

With a pained groan he leant forward and scooped the shirt up of the floor, wordlessly holding it out and refusing to flinch at the speed with which it was ripped from his hand. He tried not to miss the covered expanse of skin that had felt so wonderful beneath his hands.

Another pause, silent and almost comforting as the depth of the day's exhaustion settled over them with the ebb of adrenaline slowly fading away. Wilson made to stand, halted by the light and gentle touch of House's hand on his arm, light and unsure, both of them watching as he slowly curled his hand around Wilson's wrist.

House didn't speak, didn't think he could ever find the words for this particular moment that he had never actually dared plan for.

He brought himself to his feet instead, his breath feeling clammy and heavy in his lungs. He let his hand drift down, sliding his palm to meet Wilson's for a brief moment as their eyes met and fixed in the half light.

He left the office without looking back, pulling the door closed behind him with a gentle click and standing unsteadily in the halogen bathed corridor.

.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'

Endless hours.

Every glance at the clock seeming like torture, convincing himself that that hours must have passed only to find the hands had barely moved.

His back ached, agonised from sitting hunched over countless suture procedures and having woken up in a cramped and undignified position between Chase and Foreman on his office floor, the former practically spooning from behind and having the characteristic gall to not even seemed fazed by the knowledge that he may as well have woken him up by a kiss on the back of his neck.

It probably would have been a lot more favourable than Cuddy banging on the door and flicking on the lights that seemed to burn their eyes with phosporescent hellfire.

He peeled of the gloves he'd been using and snapped them into the biohazard bin, slinging the suture tray in after them and depositing the needles into the sharps box.

He'd be lying if he said he couldn't think of a better way to wake up.

Could have spent the night somewhere infinitely more comfortable than sharing a couch cushion with Chase and hunkering down under the lab coat that he'd kept in his office and never worn.

But needs must, and he had needed to leave.

He only had so much self control, the pills rattling in his pocket were testimony to that.

With the metaphor lingering on the edges of his mind he fingered off the top, casting a cursory glance into the orange depths and tried to estimate how long this script would last. He poured them out onto his hand, thumbing back the ones that weren't needed this time around and threw them back, chasing them with the bitter lukewarm coffee that had been nestled by his elbow for the last twenty minutes.

"Think fast."

He looked up just in time for the Lay's packet to smack him sharply in the face. Chase grinned and lobbed the sandwich which House caught easily, not managing to wipe the smug look off Chase's face. "Wilson's looking for you."

Those words made his stomach lurch, his heart race. He clutched the paper wrapped sandwich with numb fingers and nodded slowly.

"Four o'clock." Chase pointed at the clock on the wall. "Three more hours and we can go home." The knowledge had obviously awoken some reserve of giddy caffeine induced anticipation in the young man, his eyes taking on a slightly manic look as he ripped open his own bag of chips and starting crunching noisily in a way House particularly distasted.

House glanced at the steady tick of the clock, every beat of its tiny battery operated heart seeming to fight against some ancient power that was fighting to claw back time.

He wasn't sure what he dreaded more, the three yawing hours that stretched between him and the ability to get into the car and just drive. Foot down and the hospital pulling away in his rear view mirror.

He left Chase to tell Cameron the joyous news, her own exhaustion not quite enough to mask her look of disbelief at his blatantly cheery face despite the still suffering backlog of people still waiting to have wounds reassessed and rebandaged.

He found Wilson looking particularly dishevelled at the nurses' station picking up his next rotation of procedures. He took a moment just to look at him. _Really_ look at him.

His constant.

The only person who had ever cared enough to stay.

His dark eyes ringed with days of relentless exhaustion piling up on them, his shoulders lax with defeat, hand on the back of his neck as though to guard against the strain.

"Chase said you were looking for me."

His voice felt empty and shallow, the words barely reaching across the distance between them. Wilson looked up, brows furrowed as though he had only imagined him speak. His hand fell loosely to hang at his side.

"Yeah." He seemed as unsure as House felt. "Cuddy is giving all of us twenty four hours reprieve whilst Princeton General staff take over. I get off at four." The words didn't seem to sync with his lips, or maybe it was because House was trying to read into the weight behind them.

"Same here." His automatic response falling from his lips.

Wilson shifted his weight, a flinch of pain creasing his face as the movement pulled at his over tired body. "You need a lift?"

House almost wanted to laugh, could have cried at the gentle tremor in his voice. It wasn't about car sharing, they both knew that. He bit at his lip, nodding his affirmation, not trusting what damning, foolish declaration that might fall from his mouth.

.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'

They all stood together, solemn and proud, looking at the crumbled remains of their front foyer. The glass brushed away but the chunks of brick still discarded like a toppled house of cards. The bright bands of police tape flickered in the night breeze, echoing the flames that had licked the walls of their beloved hospital.

They hadn't before taken the chance to survey the damage, hadn't seen the massive hole it had left open and gaping to the elements, like an infected sore left to fester.

They turned almost as one, each going their separate ways without a word as they got into their cars.

House let Wilson drive. His leg hurt, and it was his car after all.

The traffic had subsided exponentially, the streets almost empty as the nation recovered, spending every scrap of spare moments with those they loved and celebrated the simple fact that they had been the lucky ones.

They only hit one red light on the way home, the purring of the engine only just taking the edge of the heavy tension that hung in the air between them as House stared with encompassing preoccupation out the window and Wilson tried his hardest to remember the rudimentary basics of actually driving a car.

He parked it with one wheel on the curb, tickets be damned. But House didn't notice.

There were flowers on the doorstep.

Paper notes stuck to the door.

He leaned heavily on his cane as he drew closer. Layers of paper collaged together in a mish mash of colour and handwriting.

'Thank you.'

'Thank you.'

'We love you. Thank you."

There must have been a least a hundred, maybe more. Messages of thanks and praise, poems and scripture laid out in fluid cursive and unsteady hand. He looked at Wilson, and the disbelief on his face, the sheen of bewildered tears in his eyes and his fingers traced the lines of a verse that had been scripted onto floral paper and applied to their door with a neat strip of tape. It had been addressed to him. To them.

There was a whoop and a spontaneous burst of clapping from the end of their street and they turned their confused faces to the group of youths that walked past, hollering their praise and respect.

Another door two doors down and across the street was covered. House remembered Wilson telling him about the fire fighter who had moved in two years ago.

He'd forgotten that the world had carried on around them, that there was life beyond the smoke stained walls of their hospital, that some people were left to make sure things carried on as usual. He was usually the last to spare a thought for those around them, especially those who weren't under his immediate care, but now he gave pause to think of the old lady who lived next door, to the new family who'd moved in upstairs. Where had they been the fire rained down upon them, had the kids been in school, perhaps one of the ones that had taken a glancing hit. Was their mother at the mall, their father on the train to work?

Their street was quiet, cars parked silently and the air undisturbed by the usual sounds of night time traffic.

He stepped carefully over the flowers after Wilson opened the door, reading the unease in the younger man's face at leaving them on the doorstep, could feel the warring compulsion to gather them up and put them in water, to make them last. As though by doing so would somehow preserve some twisted aspect of recent events.

The apartment was dark, the air stale and stagnant but unable to dampen the unanticipated relief at seeing the familiar setup, the hastily thrown blanket still crumpled over the back of the couch from where he'd left it.

They both paused inside the door, Wilson's hand still on the door handle, realising that they were now alone and to close the door would mean opening another.

Words were left unsaid as it slid noisily into the jamb, the latch turned and the keys thrown into the wooden bowl that stood on the sideboard. Wilson shrugged off the jacket, hanging it with heavy arms on the coat rack.

"I'm gonna go wash up." His voice low and somehow broken.

House nodded but Wilson didn't see, had already turned away and meandered wearily through the living room. The sound of water running before House even had the presence of mind to slip out of his own jacket, tossing it onto the sofa as he passed it on the way to the kitchen, his hand in his pocket and reaching for the pills that had been pressing against his leg the entire drive home.

He swallowed them roughly, drinking milk straight from the carton.

He perched on one of the breakfast bar stools, his hand rubbing along his thigh to alleviate the ache that had settled like a blanket, refusing to go away. His hand looked foreign in contrast to the dark blue scrubs he'd borrowed. It felt like forever ago that he'd worn his own clothes.

What was he doing?

He didn't do this, he didn't put himself out there like this, to be burnt and left asunder, the great and likely possibility that he had already let this go too far crept upon him like a cold insidious drug that countered the one that was settling warmly in his veins, keeping him lucid.

Neither of them were perfect. They each had their faults.

But Wilson had always come back, had stood by and watched as he used and abused. House had opened every late night knock on the door, offering up his couch after every failed marriage.

He felt like he was the earth and Wilson was the sun, circling slowly with gravity keeping them from pulling apart. Even now he could feel it, the hyper aware sense of when the other man was nearby, the walls feeling like an insubstantial barrier that came between them, not like they mattered.

They'd lived their lives together for so long, had become a familiar unit almost without realising it, a duet...inseparable. He'd never really thought of it before, that they had come together so naturally that even their friends and colleagues thought of it as odd when they spent any prolonged amount of time outside each others presence.

They had become so in tune with each other, fell into step with each other like it was natural rhythm, could read each other like an open book. Could he risk it all?

The water was still running, the steam filtering out into the corridor from the open doorway like a shadowy remnant of his nightmare. Wilson stood at the sink, hands braced on the edges of the bowl, his body trembling as he stared into the swirling, seething water that gushed from the faucet, filling the air with a hot and heavy dampness that had already started to condense in his hair.

Whether Wilson knew he was there or whether he was too exhausted to care it didn't matter, either way he didn't move when House laid his hand against his back, fitting neatly into the space between his shoulder blades, felling the slow rise and fall as he breathed. He could feel the gentle thrum of his body trembling through his arm, sending shivers down his spine, or maybe that was just his own nerves as he stepped closer, barely an inch between them, letting his hands rest on Wilson's shoulders, trailing his fingers with slow and drifting tenderness down his arms, heart in his throat at the feel of goose bumps beneath his fingertips, the sigh his touch elicited anchoring him. Wilson straightened, face to the floor and eyes closed as House let his hands encircle his waist, gaining strength and surety as he smoothed them up and over the hospital issue shirt, coming to rest on his chest, his lips drawn to the smooth skin of his neck, letting them place the softest of kisses beneath his ear. He whispered his name, his breath low and swirling hotly into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His bravado was rewarded as Wilson brought his hands to press against House's, holding them close so that the rhythm of his heart played out its staccato beat into the palm of their hands entwined.

It was pure decadence, the feeling that rushed through him as Wilson let his head fall back against his shoulder, offering up more of that glorious skin for him to trail petal soft kisses over, his own eyes closing as he breathed him in.

Wilson's hand was in his hair, his fingers threading through and holding him as he sighed, it could have been a plea, could have been a name, House was unsure but he couldn't deny the thrill of having those wonderful fingers against his face, tracing the line of his jaw as Wilson reached back, his gentle touch becoming insistent as he pulled him down, their lips a hairs breadth part, shallow breaths held. "You sure?"

He was caught in his gaze, trying to see the answer in the unreadable depths, to search for hesitation in the way he held his hand to his cheek, the faltering beat of his heart. Those eyes closed, fluttering shut, dark lashes against flushed cheeks as he breathed his answer across House's lips. "I'm sure."

House brought his hand to his neck, the heat radiating into his palm and bringing them closer, breathing in the gasp that melted into his tongue as he pressed into him. He tasted clean, warm, like the days of exhaustion and unending mental torture hadn't touched him, his hand was back in his hair, twisting it in his solid grip, leaning back against House's chest, the heat between them rising.

It only took a moment to turn him, to press him back against the uncomfortable lip of the sink, hands knotted in the shirt at his waist and arms were draped around his neck. House moaned, couldn't help it, the deep tremor of it felt where they were pressed chest to chest. The sound of it broke their kiss, Wilson's eyes darker than he'd ever seen them, lips red as he pressed them to the hinge of his jaw, his tongue tracing the beat of his pulse under the skin causing House to twitch, his hands close to ripping the seams of the shirt balled in his fists.

They left the bathroom, tap turned off but left dripping as they slowly made their way through the apartment, pausing to kiss, to bite, to let hands find new places that made the other gasp and moan.

The edge of the bed hit the back of his knees and he fell backwards, arms going wide in surprise at suddenly finding himself in his room, something significant in the way they had gravitated here instead of Wilson's. He was only bereft for a moment, Wilson's heavy weight pressing him down into the cool sheets. There was nothing to stop him running his hands up beneath his shirt, desperate to touch his skin, slaking the itch that had plagued his fingers since he'd had to force himself away. He found those lips again, drinking in the taste of him, the way Wilson let him lead, let him take charge and take all he could get. House felt the twitch of a smile grace his lips as Wilson let out a muffled gasp as he turned them, something vulnerable flashing across his face as House knelt back, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg as he dragged Wilson up by his shirt, hands digging into his hips as he captured his lips again.

It was only a matter of time before Wilson's shirt came off, followed only seconds later by his own, the feeling of skin of skin contact like the rush of drugs in his veins and he felt himself pause as Wilson pulled him back down.

The light from the moon and the streetlight outside spilled in through the uncovered window, highlighting and contrasting Wilson's skin with colour and shadow, his eyes dark and lidded with repressed desire, his hands trembling where they came to rest on his arm. House felt the breath catch in his lungs, his heart stutter as he slowly traced the lines of his face, drifting with a gentle reverence even he didn't know he had. He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life. And he said so, meeting the lips that rose to capture his own in a kiss that echoed the painful sentiment that tried to claw at his heart, begging for release, so achingly sweet and soft that it would have brought a weaker man to tears.

Their hands found each other, fingers threading, and House thrilled in the revelation of being able to hold them above Wilson's head, have him stretched out beneath him, breath hot and sweet as it ghosted over his lips.

He should have known it would be like this between them, his wildest desires and ardent hopes that had haunted his dreams had always hinted that they would be fire and ice, that Wilson's touch would burn him, that the feel of his breath against his skin would send shivers down his spine. He should felt embarrassed at leaving himself so open, of not quite hiding what he felt in his eyes, of letting them slide close at the feel of Wilson holding his face in his hand, slow and deliberate as fingers raked into his hair.

They rolled again, legs entangled, messing up the sheets. There was a hesitant touch at his hip, the unsure slide of fingers just dipping into the waistband of the scrubs. This would be the last line they could cross and House warred with the furious internal battle, a whole lifetime of argument and debate over in an instant. They'd come this far...

He was glad for the darkness, grateful for the shadows that hid his scars and his sudden vulnerability, stripped slowly and left bare in the contrast of blue and amber, the lines of colour and edges of shadows traced with deft assurance, fingertips slowly replaced with soft kisses, hot tongue and cold breath. House sighed in contentment, hands in Wilson's hair as he trailed a fiery path of burning kisses across his chest, tugging at his own clothes until nothing came between them, just the exquisite perfection of finally having all of him.

"James." He gasped his name, arms clutching at him as the jolt of irrepressible arousal burned brightly behind his eyes, his name was pressed back against his lips, Wilson's tongue following its path into his mouth, the movement mirrored in the way their bodies moved together, hands grasping and pulling each other as close as they could, trying to climb into each other, eyes closed and striving towards something glorious.

The hand that reached between them caused his back to arch, his breath to stall. His hips moving of their own volition, setting a pace that meant neither of them could last long. Wilson's face pressed to his neck, his mouth open and gasping, a hiss of pleasure as House raked his nails down the smooth expanse of Wilson's back, grasping at his hips and holding him as he pushed up into the exquisite friction, ribbons of agonising pleasure winding through him, around his arms, his feet, stars bursting behind his eyes and he caught those perfect lips just in time to sigh his release, Wilson's name tumbling forth and swallowed whole as a glorious fire burst through him, head thrown back and only just aware of how Wilson pressed his cheek to his, three wonderful, damning words falling from those kiss swollen lips and crystallising with a frightening clarity in his mind.

'I love you.'


	7. Chapter 7

The low beep of the heart monitor seemed to keep pace with his own, his eyes flickering over the screens, monitoring O2 sats, blood pressure and heart rate, the numbers familiar and oddly comforting, something he knew how to read in amongst all the confusion. House looked at his watch, noted the time and added to the list of shorthand on the board at the end of the bed before sinking down into one of the visitor's chairs.

It was organised chaos outside the room, like an ant's nest rebuilding itself after kicking it over, the corridors still crowded but strangely mute now. He'd been hiding out here for at least an hour and no one had yet come to fetch him, doubted that anyone would really try.

"_So what happens now?" Wilson's voice was low, the perfect accompaniment to the quiet darkness that dampened the room. House threw the spoon he'd been using to stir his coffee into the sink, the harsh clattering jangling his nerves. Of course they'd have to have this conversation._

"_What do you want to happen?" he kept his tone neutral as he turned, leaning against the counter top and coolly assessing Wilson who waited with his hands curled around the back of a chair. He'd borrowed some of House's sweats, his armour replaced._

_Wilson sighed, something resigned that smacked of defeat. "It's not about me House, we both know that." He said dully, hitting home a truth that was both undeniable and hurtful in its accuracy. "It'll never be about me."_

_House dropped his focus, ashamed that the guilt might show on his face and he looked instead into the eddying surface of his coffee. He was right. He was always right, and it filled him with an anguish that Wilson knew this fact about him, knew that House would always look at things with an impersonal, logical and self destructive tendency, that he couldn't cope with happiness, that it mocked him and taunted him until he had to drive it away before it left of its own free will. And isn't that what Wilson had done? Hadn't he shown the same care to three wives, let them fall for him, let them lay themselves bare and then swiftly dashed their love and trust among the rocks of his own personal insecurities, had left them all without looking back. _

_House didn't think he could take that._

_Not from him._

_But he couldn't just turn away either, couldn't find the strength to cover up the cracks that were beginning to show, and after all, he was a fan of dramatic melancholy. _

_But only when he'd had someone to fall back on._

"_I asked what you wanted." He said again, refusing to look up, bringing the cup to his lips even though the liquid scorched his mouth, it was a suitable distraction to his own tortured mind._

_He heard Wilson sigh, the familiar sound of his hands rubbing tiredly over his face and House knew if he looked up now he'd see his characteristic hands on hips stance. The pauses in his breath punctuating his aborted attempts to speak, to find the words that would make it so House would be the one to actually admit to where they go from here, avoiding the nerve wrecking moment that would come after such an admission when the world seems to stop and you wait with baited breath for an answer. House took another sip of the scalding coffee, almost enjoying the near euphoric feeling of being perched on the precipice of something huge. "If you can't say it Wilson, then you can't have..."_

"_You." Wilson interrupted him, his sudden outburst stopping House in his tracks. He looked up. If he thought he felt vulnerable then it was nothing compared to how Wilson looked, and the sight of him, hands balled into fists at his side, head tilted to the side and a look on his face as though someone had just told him his mother had died made him want to stretch out his fingers, to wipe away the uncertainty that darkened his eyes. "I want you." He whispered. "God knows why." He shook his head, hands wide in supplication as he shrugged. "But I always have." _

House helped himself to the jug of water on the sideboard, careful not to shatter the silence of the room as he poured.

Wilson loved him.

Was _in_ love with him.

It was an important distinction and the knowledge of that simple, life changing, all consuming fact had sent his already bruised and overworked mind into overdrive. A thousand ridiculous questions firing along each nerve causing a fight or flight battle inside him so extreme it felt as though he were being literally torn apart. Or at least his heart was. It ached, deep and throbbing as he remembered last night, let his eyes drift close with the flashes of imagery projecting behind shut lids. They'd slept, brief pauses between sleepy kisses and tired hands mapping out warm, slow paths over each other's skin before they folded themselves around each other, hot breath on the back of Wilson's neck, hands held loosely across his chest. They'd slept straight through the day, only waking to turn and gain a more comfortable purchase on each other, heads resting on chests, hands over hearts, the milky light that fell in through the window doing nothing to persuade them to leave the world they'd created for themselves within the confines of pillows and blankets.

It had been more than he'd ever hoped.

He downed the water, shaking his head to sober himself and casting an eye over the patient in the bed, slow and steady breaths in the silence of the room. House almost envied him and his ability to be oblivious to it all, but soon felt the sharp pang of guilt as he remembered what had brought him here.

"_You never said." It was House's turn to whisper, but not out of reverence to the conversation, but more because the admission had shocked the colour from his voice. He'd said nothing after Wilson's impromptu admission the night before, had put it down to the heat of the moment, and nothing of the kind had passed the other man's lips since. But looking at him now, hearing the subtle vehemence and truth his voice there was no denying it. And to question why would serve no purpose, why did anybody ever love him? _

"_And what would I have said?" Wilson asked, hitting the point entirely. Would could he have said? And what would House have said in return? He could even admit to himself that that conversation would have been non negotiable._

"_So why now?" He asked in return, already knowing the answer, the reason was the same as his own._

_Wilson's lips twitched with the faintest of smiles. "Fate is a fickle mistress." He echoed House's sentiment of days before. "You could have died, we both could have...and I would never have said anything." He admitted blandly._

"_People die every day." House countered. "Get hit by cars, get shot, get diseases..."_

"_But this was real." Wilson argued. "This was so close." His eyes closed of their own volition as he no doubt envisioned the smoke and the light of the flames. "I was so afraid." He whispered, words barely escaping his lips so that House had to lean forward to hear them. "And you said nothing. You didn't mock me, or make any jokes...you were there, you were right there...and I knew, that no matter what happened, you wouldn't let me fall."_

_House swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat, placing the mug down on the counter as he felt the strength being sapped from his limbs. _

"_I know what being with you will be like." Wilson carried on in the same low whisper. "I've been there to watch you sabotage every relationship you've ever had, I've watched you push yourself to the edges of addiction, and I've seen you fall." He raised his eye to meet House, the strength of his conviction shining through. "I've never turned my back on you. I never will."_

"_How can you be so sure?" House asked gruffly, aiming for mild petulance and failing, frailty and helplessness permeating his thinly veiled attempt at scorn. He'd never felt so exposed._

"_I can't" Wilson admitted openly, his honesty a refreshing change to the lies that people always told each other. "But you know me." _

_House nodded, almost smiled. "You're addicted to neediness." He'd said it countless times before, never imagined that it would come up in this conversation._

House glanced at his watch, it was about now that the rest of his team would be coming in, their need for sleep sated, ready to take action with a cheeriness that would really grate on his nerves today. He'd be the first one they'd come to find, as though he had any sort of say or management level when the hospital was still in the grips of logistical nightmare.

_They stood silently for a while, House finished his coffee, listening to the sound of Wilson breathe, short and fast, as though he'd just run a race...or was preparing to run. "Okay." House said at length, the verdict sounding like a judges gavel in his ears, wondering with a thrill of both dread and excitement what it was he had just agreed to. Wilson paused from where he was rubbing at his temples, the headache building from days without rest finally being chased away with the remnants of the sleep that still seemed to grip his limbs. _

_He didn't question what House had just said, the warring surrealty of everything falling into place showing on his face. He allowed himself the grace to smile, something shy and unbearably cute that wouldn't look out of place on a schoolboy with a crush. "Okay." He agreed._

_There was a moment when neither of them moved, not quite sure how to take the first official step, but it ended quickly as House crossed the divide, his hands going straight for Wilson's waist, feeling his own shirt under his touch, but the heat behind it was Wilson's. The heart that hammered in his chest matched House's own, its rhythm stuttering as they pulled one another into a deep and hungered kiss, fingers trembling on House's cheek, weakly gripping at the front of his shirt as he swallowed the relieved sigh. He held him tight, revelling in the feel of him within the circle of his arms, finally, completely his. Not just for one night, not just for this crazy hellish week, but for as long as they could make it work. He felt Wilson smile into the kiss, chasing it with his tongue and lapping at the taste of..._

_He pulled back, eyes snapping open._

_Wilson looked up at him, confusion in his eyes as House extricated himself from their embrace, leaning heavily and breathlessly on the counter as House took the necessary steps to switch on the overhead light._

_House felt his heart leap into his throat, cursing and damning himself for not having noticed the darker hue of the other man's lips. They were blue._

_He limped back over to him, grabbing at his hands to check his fingernails, the beds tinged with the same dull hue. "Fuck." He muttered harshly. He could still taste the blood in his mouth._

"_What is it?" He was still breathless. How could House not have noticed, how could he have been so wrapped up in his own head not to have seen textbook physiology._

"_We need to get you back to the hospital." He said tersely, holding Wilson's face with a clinical diligence as he checked his eyes, his thumb tracing the edge of his lower lip._

"_What...Why?" The answer to his question was illustrated perfectly as the vestiges of strength slowly drained away from Wilson's limbs, legs shaking as he tried to keep himself up and House was on him in an instant, holding him as they both descended to the floor. He sat him back against the counter, ignoring the sudden clumsiness of his own hands and the bewildered looked on Wilson's face as he pressed his fingers against his neck, pulse wild and racing under his touch. "What's wrong?" His voice sounded thick, tinged with an awareness of fear that House only knew was there because he couldn't keep the concern from his own face._

"_You're bleeding." He said quietly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth, or maybe it was just the taste of copper that had melted into his tongue._

"_What?" Wilson picked up his hands, casting a furrowed gaze over his arms, the skin pale under the over head light. "Where?"_

"_Your lungs." House stated. The air seemed to cool suddenly around them, Wilson's eyes locking with his own as the words 'pulmonary embolism' were left unsaid._

The door slid open and Cuddy backed into the room, two coffees balanced precariously in her hand as she drew the door shut again.

"How's he doing?" she asked, her face lined with concern as she handed one of the coffees over to House and picked up the chart from the end of the bed, her eyes quick and furtive as she read over the notes.

"Stable." House muttered, watching the drip of saline in its ampoule before it entered the line that hung from the bag, its length twisting and coiling until disappearing beneath the sterile dressing that covered the canula that stood out in contrast on the back of Wilson's hand.

He itched to pull the chair closer to the bed, to reach out and cover that hand with his.

But the walls were made of glass. And he wasn't ready for them to see.

"We'll do another chest spiral with a radiocontrast once we've given the Heparin a good chance to work." She said quietly, didn't even try to hide the lilting unease in her voice.

House said nothing, just leant forward and dropped his face into his hands, rubbing the heels into his eyes until he saw spots, anything to alleviate the images that played out behind closed eyes.

"_Stay with me."_

_Hands held as he thumbed the phone pad and pressed it to his ear, waiting for the line to pick up._

They should have done a scan. Any other day and they would have taken the precaution, would have had him up in radiology as soon as anyone had seen his eyes flutter with the lapse of consciousness. But no, not this time, and none of them, not even him had questioned anything, Wilson probably hadn't even realised himself, would have blamed the headache on not having slept for days. It was chance and bad luck that the clot had broken up as they had been allowed to leave, breathlessness and increased heart rate wasn't something that would have been out of the ordinary last night.

"_911 emergency response..."_

He had the insane urge to punch the wall.

"_I need an ambulance, I have a man here going into respiratory arrest."_

He looked so fragile nestled between the hospital sheets, lashed dark on pale cheeks, so different from the man who had been so alive under his hands.

"_I can't breathe..."_

He should have noticed.

"_I'm here."_

It was probably his fault. How often had his fingers skirted the edge of those stitches, how many times had Wilson flinched as they carried on with a wild abandon. He should have said something then, should have shown more restraint. But he had been awoken, brought to his knees by the feel of those lips against his, the way they fit so perfectly together that he would have needed the voice of God himself to have dragged his attention away from the way those hands instinctively knew where to touch him. Their activities of the night before could not be overlooked as a contributing factor.

"He'll be fine." Cuddy said softly, deigning to drop her hand to rest on his shoulder, something he would have shrugged off before now but instead he begrudgingly welcomed the strength it seemed to offer. He reached for the coffee, uncapping its lid and letting the fragrant steam wash over him. He took a sip, not tasting it but glad for the warmth.

The door slid open again, Chase, Cameron and Foreman nearly stumbling over one another to enter the room. their eyes wide and mouths lax with confusion and shock.

"We saw his name on the board..." Chase mumbled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the nurses' station where all the roomed patients were listed in whiteboard markers. His eyes stayed fixed on Wilson.

"What happened?" Foreman sounded shocked, if not mildly outraged, the perfect contrast to Cameron who had been last through the door and now stood with her hand to her mouth and that irritating over concerned mother hen look etched onto her face.

"Subdural haematoma from the head injury he received broke away resulting in a PE." Cuddy stated numbly, hiding behind the clinical description. Much easier than accepting the fact that they'd all messed up.

"When did this happen?" Foreman picked up the chart, just as Cuddy had, Chase leaning over to read the same stats House had been diligently making for hours.

"Last night." House muttered, amazed that he was still able to keep track of the hours, the clock on the wall and the darkness reminding him that it was the early hours of the morning.

"Why didn't you page us?" Chase sounded indignant, the hands in his pockets going wide to flair out his lab coat.

"There was no need." He knew he sounded heartless, that Wilson was their friend too, but it had been enough that Cuddy had been informed; there was no way of stopping someone from paging the dean of medicine when one of her department heads was rushed into the ICU.

Chase spluttered, a countering argument on his lips but House shushed him, all eyes turning to the bed as its occupant shifted, the heart monitor pinging at a more erratic rate as dark eyes began to flutter as Wilson woke up.

House dropped the bar and carefully sat on the edge of the bed, Cuddy hovering anxiously beside him as the other three crowded the other side, Chase's eyes flickering over the monitors as they spiked.

"House?" Wilson's voice sounded sore, grazed from intubation and the suction tube to draw the blood out of his lungs. He creased his eyes, turning away from the lamp that House reached up to knock away, the light swinging to the side and sending shadows carving into the corner of the room.

"I'm here." How did he keep his voice so calm when he had to hold on to the sheets just to stop them from reaching out to touch his face. He felt the gentle trembling touch of Wilson's hand as he turned it to graze against his forearm, lasting the briefest of moments before it slumped back to the bed, even that small exertion too much for him.

"What happened?" the voice was small, eyes flickering back and forth to the other occupants of the room but always coming back to meet House's gaze.

"You went into respiratory arrest. The ambulance brought you in." But of course, he wouldn't remember that, wouldn't remember House calling his name, the slap to his face meant to rouse him, the furious shake of House's hands as they had positioned themselves on his chest, pushing down until ribs bent beneath the pressure. "We've got you on Heparin at the moment until we can confirm the full extent with an MRI." He sounded uncharacteristically choked, abhorring the words that slipped numbly from his lips as he gave the news, hating that it was Wilson he had to say them to.

Wilson nodded as much as he could, eyes pained as he sucked in a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

House shook his head, "Nothing to be sorry about." He could feel the others as a physical presence, crowding him and suffocating his resolve, making him feel reserved and awkward, his words stilted lest he betray some stray emotion.

"Bad timing though." Wilson muttered and House couldn't help the indulgent smile that curled the corner of his lips.

He cleared his throat and stood, the cloying thickness in his throat threatening to choke him. "Bad timing would have been when you were driving us home." For more reasons than one. "I should go order that MRI." He said lamely, straightening and looking around for his cane, anything to turn himself away from the sudden sadness in Wilson's eyes. But he couldn't trust himself to stay.

"I'll stay with him." Cuddy spoke up. "But you guys need to go back down and help out." She looked over the team.

House found his cane, leaning against the wall where it had rested all night, not needed as he'd had no intention of leaving the room. He leant on it, feeling like the worst person in the world, like he was running away right after he said he would stay.

He stopped in the doorway, Foreman nearly running into his back as they all went to follow him out in single file. His chest ached with restricted breath.

He could be a bastard every other day of the year, but not today.

When had he ever cared what people thought of him anyway.

He turned sharply, pushing his stick to Foreman's chest until the other man grabbed hold of it and determinately walked the short distance back to the bed, caught in the hope flecked darkened gaze as he leant down, one hand sinking into the mattress and the other on Wilson's face, thumb running across his cheek as he bent to capture his lips in a soft kiss, eyes closed and heart bursting as a cool and gentle grip encircled his wrist, grounding him in the moment until he pulled back, his hand lingering for one long second on his cheek. "Be back soon." He promised quietly.

He retrieved his cane from Foreman, pretending not to notice the frozen, comical looks of his employee's faces as he stalked past them. The rumour mill would explode with this one, but it would be worth it, just to have seen the love in Wilson's eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**thanks for all the tasty nutritious reviews, they keep me happy and sated! much love to all of you! :)**

House felt as though he were under a microscope, his every action and flicker of emotion across his face under scrutiny. It was one of the downsides to working in a hospital, there was no veil to hide behind when someone you cared about was brought in, and he couldn't blame the others, he'd been guilty of the long assessing looks when any of them had had friends or family members come in, watching them as they stood at their bedsides, hands held and brows furrowed. But at least when he had done it they had assumed correctly that it was in the search of some tiny detail that he could use later to mock or ridicule them.

God, he was a horrible person.

With the tables turned he felt the eyes on him as a definitive point of focus, every tightened grip on his cane, every grimace of guilt and shift of weight, every half sigh and avoided gaze came under their watchful eye. It was insufferable but he didn't have the energy to snap.

"I'm sure you'll tell me it's none of my business, but..."

"It _is_ none of your business." House growled lowly, barely glancing at Chase as they both watched from behind the glass as Cameron fixed the plastic cage down around Wilson's head, her gentle reassurances unheard as she spoke to him.

He fought the urge to chew at his nails, a habit he'd given up years ago when he'd given up on Stacy, ignoring the ambience of the room as Cameron joined them, her eyes drawn immediately to him. He twitched as Chase hit the button that sent the rhythmic pounding of the MRI through the room, the noise of it covering the sound of his heart rushing in his ears as he watched Wilson's eyes press close on the in view monitor.

"It's lucky you were there." Cameron said quietly, her comment heavily laced with implication whilst artfully avoiding what she actually wanted to say.

"We live together." House countered. "Of course I was there."

"I meant..."

"Meant what?" House glared at her. "That he was lucky that I was there after none of us noticed the signs, that none of us bothered to have him checked after he passed out, that I was so wrapped up in myself after he told me that he loved me to ignore what was so painfully obvious?" his breath felt short in his lungs, his blood boiling with self recrimination.

Speaking before he thought.

The silence seemed to ring in his ears, punctuated by the mechanical thump of the MRI.

"He's in love with you?"

Of course Cameron would have focused on that. He swung his gaze away from her.

"You can't honestly blame yourself for this House." Chase countered, diplomatically side stepping the issue. "It was a sudden onset, even if we'd done a CT we might not have seen anything, it can take days for a clot to form, we could have missed the issue altogether."

"He used to take the stairs." House muttered. "Still does if I'm not there." He leant his cane against the wall and sank into one of the chairs. "If he hadn't taken the lift he wouldn't have been hurt."

"If he'd have taken the stairs he'd be dead, probably would have been in the lobby when the bomb went off." Chase argued.

House couldn't know that for sure though. He shook his head as though irritated by the thought, the silence dragging out as they watched the images appear on the monitor.

They crowded the screen to squint at and scroll through the sectors. "Looks like we've got multiple filling defects at the bifurcation and pulmonary arteries." Chase muttered, sounding grave.

House swore lowly, gripping the edge of the table clenching his jaw to stop the vicious string of profanities escaping him.

"We can push tPA to try and avoid a thrombectomy." Cameron suggested, her voice small and almost frightened at breaking the tense silence.

House swallowed roughly and nodded, dropping his gaze as he weighed up the implications and the risks. "Call up for Alteplase." He sighed roughly, straightening up and grabbing for his cane as he reached for the door handle. "And get him out of there." He all but shouted, prompting Chase to lean forward to punch the button that brought the bed sliding out in time for House to have reached Wilson as he opened his eyes.

"We're pushing Alteplase." He told him quietly, registering the closed yet comprehending look with a lurch of his heart that made him feel as though it was tearing in two.

.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'

Cuddy sat across him at the table, a fresh coffee sitting in front of her, her hands encircling but not quite touching, soaking up the heat. They 'd been sitting alone in House's office for ten minutes now, the tension radiating off them and acting to ward off anyone who might come near. They were the only doctors in the hospital who had not been roped into the emergency clinic.

"How long?" she asked him softly. She was the only person he could handle the questions from, had proved in the past that she was actually on his side and it drove home the raw truth of just how few friends he had, how many people he had pushed away to the point he couldn't trust anyone else in his life apart from this woman and a man currently so out of it, it would be a miracle if he woke up this side of Christmas.

"Be specific." He muttered in return, staring down into his own coffee. Across the short distance he heard Cuddy sigh.

"How long have you and Wilson been seeing each other?" she said it without awkwardness, forever to the point.

"About three minutes before he collapsed." He kept his gaze in the mug he slowly rotated in his hands. There was an expectant pause and he let it draw itself out before he chanced a glance up, the look on Cuddy's face meant she knew he was keeping something back.

He cleared his throat, the collar of his shirt itching the back of his neck at the prospect of discussing anything this personal. Give him throw away chauvinistic comments about hookers and he was fine, ask him to speak honestly about something that touched him deeper than even he could admit and he was lost for words. "He...kissed me."

She said nothing, whether she was waiting for more or simply basking in his willingness to admit, but he appreciated her silence, her simple generosity at leaving his comment, his admission to hang in the air where he could dissect it, could own the revelation as though staring at the simple fact for the first time, the catalyst that had brought them from simmering anticipation to certainty.

"Do you love him?" She asked him quietly, skipping forward about a thousand steps in the conversation and bypassing all the ridiculous high school question he would have gotten from anybody else.

And this was the crux of the matter. He'd never had to think about it before, it had always been an implication, or an assumption at least that he loved Wilson on some level, but he could say the same with Cuddy, he'd even grown a certain fondness for Chase over the years. But they didn't distract him like Wilson did, and it wasn't until the point where he'd snapped, had insisted that Wilson stay behind at the apartment while he went back the hospital that he'd been forced into reassessing the depth of his own feelings, and the introspection had scared the hell out of him.

He just assumed it was a perversion of his to have the occasional thought, to feel a bizarre indignation to become flustered when anyone made a comment about them bickering like a married couple, he could be overtly sexual at the drop of a hat, and combine that with close living with someone he'd known inside out for years was bound to lead to some questionable thoughts.

But they had been nothing compared to the buzzing anticipation that had electrified the air around them, the short glances when they caught each other's eye, and the way the world ceased to exist as those perfect lips brushed against his own.

He hadn't realised that it was that moment he'd been waiting for, his pain ignored and forgotten in lieu of holding him in his arms. It was like finding a truth he didn't even know he was looking for.

He nodded slowly, the act more at home with one admitting a crime.

Cuddy made a sound low in her throat, something indicative of her astonishment that he had actually conceded the point rather than what it was he had confessed.

She laughed softly. "You know, despite everything, I never actually saw this coming."

He looked up at her under furrowed brow.

"I'm serious, didn't even cross my mind."

"You called Wilson my 'better half' last week." He reminded her drily.

"That's different." She exclaimed. "That's banter."

House briefly wondered whether any money had changed hands within his team.

"More like a self fulfilling prophecy." He arched his brow and took a sip of his coffee. "Say something enough times and it's bound to come true."

"Except this was Wilson's idea." She leant forward conspiratorially. "If it had been you to action it, we'd all be questioning your motives, but you didn't, he did, he's not one to rise to playground taunts."

"Oh come on." House scoffed. "That man is all about the social contract."

"So, what...he's just being polite?"

House remained quiet. He'd not got to the _why's_ of that conversation yet.

"Yes, he cares about what other people think of him, a hell of a lot more than you do, but he's also not caught up on pride." Cuddy said pointedly and House wondered when the subject had turned in to an argument.

"Do you have a point?" He didn't even sound sarcastic, just bemused.

Cuddy sighed. "I'm not sure. I just know what you're like, and what he's like, and what you're both like together...and...I have a hospital to run." She said it with an air that the potential fallout could be greater than the one they were currently healing from.

House frowned down into his coffee, unable to tangle the threads of the conversation fully. The points didn't act up. Yes, Wilson didn't care about pride, allowing him the freedom to actually confess, but he cared to much, had much more to lose in the face of rejection.

Maybe it _was_ just a fleeting infatuation brought upon by a near death experience. House knew Wilson, knew how he worked and how the simpler things were easier to him, his extra marital philandering smacked of fleeting emotion, something quick and easy and fun to while away the time and stave off the boredom until the electric petered out and the monotony began to settle in.

He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling suddenly like a fool.

His pager went off. And Cuddy's.

He was on his feet without even checking it, knowing for certain that there was only one patient in the hospital that warranted him being paged. He limped heavily to the ICU, preparing for a chaotic scene of scrambling nurses and barked orders; instead it was quiet, chase leaning over the bed with his pen light out testing for pupil reaction.

He hovered in the doorway with Cuddy, frowns fixed before Chase acknowledged them, meeting them halfway between the bed and informing them in a low voice. "He just woke up, says he can't feel much on his right hand side." He glanced at House to gauge his reaction. "I've tested his reflexes, all compromised."

"His BP's still low." Cuddy whispered, her eyes glued to the monitors.

"Doesn't mean he couldn't have stroked out." House muttered.

"The Alteplase might have just broken up the clots instead of dissolving it, could be an aneurysm?" Chase offered.

"But his blood pressure's..."

"Do an LP, we'll need another CT." House interrupted her. He could feel the grip he had on his cane tighten, eyes pulled by gravity to meet those staring at him with concern. The other nodded and the left the room, leaving him feeling exposed.

House pulled in a breath, felt in tighten in his chest as he leant his cane against the end of the bed, picking up the chart that Chase had just made his latest notes on. "How are you feeling?" He sounded too polite, too strained, and Wilson noticed.

"House?"

"Headache?" House carried on, flipping over a sheet of paper on the chart and hating Cuddy with vitriol for the clammy damp feeling that cooled the back of his neck. She knew how easily he gave in to doubts.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "No...Sit down?" he swept his hand over the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sheet. He felt his heart flutter at the invitation, at the warmth that masked the weakness in Wilson's voice.

He brought a hand up to rub at his face, wiping across his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can you hold out both of your arms for me?"

Wilson sighed minutely at his tone and did as he was told, noticing with frustration that his right arm slumped immediately back to the bed.

He opened his mouth to explain the next step, to tell him what he already knew, what any doctor would assume. It was completely unnecessary but it covered the silence, or it would have if Wilson hadn't gotten in there first.

"Please?" He patted the edge of the bed again.

House sighed and tossed the chart onto the bedside table, his gaze flickering to the glass wall and watching Cuddy for a moment at the nurses' station where she was filling out the radiology request.

"You don't want them to see?" Wilson asked him quietly, taking his shameful glance at the see through partition as awkwardness, when in fact he was judging her motives. Her words ran though him, stated matter of factly without a hint of either hesitance or compunction, boiling down into only one coherent thought. _It would fail._

"I hardly think that matters now." He replied gruffly. He sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, his leg protesting and then sighing in relief as the weight was taken off and almost immediately House felt Wilson's hand curl around his own, skin cold as fingers laced through his and House felt his mind go blank as he stared down at the incongruous image of their hands entwined in his lap. Could something feel right if it was bound for failure?

"Why me?" He hated the way his voice cracked, the glaring insecurity that kept his eyes locked on their hands as he refused to look Wilson in the eye. "You could have anyone."

He listened to the intermittent beep of the heart monitor, the way it sped a little faster and he was momentarily glad it wasn't him hooked up otherwise the room would have been full of nurses by now wondering why he was going into cardiac arrest. The hand that held his tightened, thumb running over his skin and he was entranced by the beauty of it, at how such a simple act could illicit such a craving in him to want more, to never want him to let go. The thought frightened him.

"Probably." Wilson said tentatively, "But where would the fun in that be." His attempt at levity fell on deaf ears and constricted the air in the room.

"Fun?" House echoed.

There was a moment when he felt eyes drawn to his face, mapping his insecurities.

Wilson understood, "I love you, Greg. It's a damn hard thing to admit, but I do." He said softly.

House nodded, the act born of acceptance rather than understanding. He drew a breath to speak but was interrupted by the sliding of the door as Chase walked in, LP kit in his hands and a blank look on his face as his gaze immediately fixated on their hands. House leapt to his feet as much as a man with a crippled leg could, practically flinching away from their touch.

"Sorry." He mumbled, looking awkward and motioning to the door. "I can come back?"

"No, it's fine." Wilson held his hand out for the waiver form to sign. He pushed the paper aside as Chase set up, looking up at House with uncertainty. "You'll stay?"

As if he could deny him anything.

He drew up the chair to the side of the bed, perching awkwardly on the edge of it as he reached for the bed controls, thumb digging into the button the lowered it flat. He watched with a dull ache as Wilson struggled to roll onto his side, Chase helping him as his arm gave out under his weight trying to rearrange the wires and tubes that seemed to swarm his body.

"First time having a lumbar puncture?" Chase asked lightly, eyes on Wilson's hand as it weakly gripped at the sheet as he untied the hospital gown.

"Not something I can admit to doing recreationally." He muttered drily, eyes on House.

"Well, you know the drill. Just tell me where the pain is."

The minutes dragged by slowly and House felt an itch in his feet to just get up and leave, anything to stop the guilt that stung like bile in his throat as he watched the pain lance across Wilson's face, his stilted utterances as he helped Chase guide the needle into his spine.

"Opening pressure is way too high." He muttered, eyes meeting over Wilson and Houses nodded as Chase scribbled the results on the chart.

"What did she say to you?"Wilson asked softly, drawing House's gaze and distracting him from the procedure.

"Who?"

"Cuddy." Wilson said, even though it was obvious who they were talking about. "She said something to you."

"What makes you say that?" He tried to sound casual and failed miserably.

"Come on House, you're the least awkward person I know...look at you." House flushed, knowing that not only Wilson looked at him but Chase too. "I know she's at the nurse's station, you keep glaring at her."

"Doesn't matter." He bit out.

"House...?"

"James." House warned him gently. He could feel Chase's eyes on him.

"Let me guess." Wilson carried on, heedless of the irritated look it brought him. "The big sister talk? 'you'd better not hurt him' and so on." He smiled a little, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Something like that." House said quietly, desperately wanting Wilson to shut up so he didn't have to think about it.

"You know what she's like, mother hen protecting her..."

"It's not going to work." House felt the words slip free from his lips, whispered quietly before he even realised he'd formed the thought. For a moment he wasn't even sure he'd said them, but he watched as the gentle smile slowly faded from Wilson's face, his brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

"What?" Wilson's voice was just as soft, perplexion written across his face as though he tried to read House's train of thought.

Chase cleared his throat, reminding them of his presence.

"She said that?" incomprehension prevalent in his voice.

"Not in so many words." House admitted. "...just made me think."

The monitor beside him pinged and House glanced quickly to see the evidence of an elevated heart rate, could hear the deep breath drawn. "And what did she say to make you think that?" there was a hard edge to his question, eyes darkening with bewilderment.

"You guys think maybe you should wait to talk about this?" Chase interrupted diplomatically. "Perhaps when I don't have a needle in your spine?" he directed himself at Wilson.

Wilson laughed, self deprecating and cut short as Chase laid a warning hand on his hip to still him. "Seriously?" He looked House in the eye as though daring him to look away.

House fought the shrug that crept up on him, pressing his elbows firmly to side to stop the gesture exploding out of him. "Chase is right." He said instead.

He could practically feel the hurt and confusion rolling off him in waves, air thick with tension and Wilson's constrained breathes.

Admittedly it wasn't the best time to bring it up, and House regretted it with a passion, wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold the hand that grasped feebly at the bed covers, trembling ever so slightly with restrained emotion.

"I'm nearly done here." Chase muttered, breaking the silence. "Just need you to cough for me." He said, reaching for another vial.

Wilson complied, face pained and flinching.

He was too broken for someone like Wilson, even with his addiction to neediness. They'd only survived this long as friends because they both knew they could walk away at any moment, could leave the other to sort out their issues. But what would happen when they became each other's issues, when giving each other space meant sweeping their discontent under the rug, denying and ignoring them until one of them exploded with words that cut like knives. and the vicious guilt ridden circle of House's stubbornness and Wilson's need to please meant that he always won and Wilson always lost would begin, would tip the balance. And then it would begin, the resentment, the tired sighs and avoided gaze and then one day he would wake up and he would be gone. Isn't that how it had always happened? Why did anyone think it would be different this time?

He couldn't go through that again.

Not with Wilson.

"House?" The pain in Wilson's voice pulled him from his reverie and he quickly noted the twinge of pain lining his face. "I can't breathe." He motioned feebly to his chest, the motion drawing his attention to the labouring breaths.

House stood at the same time the monitors started to go off, pulses of noise ricocheting off the walls as Chase yanked the needle from Wilson's back, throwing it onto the tray as they both reached to lay him flat.

"I didn't touch the cord." Chase exclaimed, yanking the oxygen mask from the wall and pressing it firmly to Wilson's face as House leant forward to pull at the stethoscope around Chase's neck, eyeing him with a passionate distrust as he pulled at the gown, pressing the head to Wilson's chest and listening intently. He muttered something lowly as he motioned for Chase to help him sit him up, grabbing at his shoulders and hauling him forward as he pressed the scope to his back.

"It's an oedema." He looked up at the nurses who bustled in through the doors, Cuddy hot on their heels.

"Get an IV of sodium nitroprusside." Chase barked, sending one of them scurrying away.

"And Glycerol trinitate!" House shouted after her.

"You think it's his heart?" Chase looked at him, one eye on house as he checked the O2 sats.

"Just covering all the bases." He countered.

"What going on?"Cuddy demanded from the doorway, her heels clicking on the floor as she strode to the end of the bed, her hands raised in disbelief.

"Oh, just a little imminent death, nothing to worry yourself over." He sniped, reaching into a drawer to pull out a sedative, teeth clamping down on the needle cap as he held Wilson's shoulder steady, jamming it into his arm and waiting with held breath as he his eyes flicked back and forth between the heart monitor and Wilson's face, his hand still clamped firmly on his shoulder. "You're okay." He said quietly, meeting panicked eyes and holding them fast. "It's okay."

His heart was in his throat, his stomach in knots and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. His hands shook, dropping the needle he'd used into the sharps box, fingers numb and useless as he listened to the sound of Wilson's pulse slow, his breath still heavy and laboured, pain etched on his face, but at least he was no longer tachycardic.

House staggered backwards, a nurse rushing in to replace him.

He could feel the world whiting out around him, noises blurring in the background, his vision tunnelling in as he watched Chase struggling to get hold of the situation.

He was out of his depth. He felt sick, his heart racing as he watched Cuddy reach out to grip Wilson's hand, holding on tight where he should have done.

He should have seen this coming. The next step that had been right in front of him.

But he hadn't seen it, hadn't even contemplated the mere thought of it.

He'd failed. Again.


	9. Chapter 9

The key felt heavy in his hand after the long day, turning with a heavy clunk in the door as he opened it. The apartment was warm, bathed in the soft glow of lamp light and banishing the frigid cold that had seeped into his bones.

He shut the door behind him, careful not to slam it and dislodge the wreath like the day before.

"You're home early."

Wilson stood at the kitchen counter, not turning round but talking over his shoulder.

House paused, brow knitted as he slowly reached up to unwind the scarf from his neck. "You moved the tree again?" he dropped the keys into the bowl and smirked at the guilty silence emanating from the kitchen.

Everything was black and white and colour, the lights on the tree both sharp and blurred. It was his apartment, _their_ apartment, the touches of warmth softening the sharp edges, candles and holly and candy canes turning it from what used to be somewhere he used to just live into his home.

He hung his jacket on the wall, kicking off his sneakers, the floor under his feet felt nonexistent, the air that filled his lungs thick as water.

"What are you making?" the words left his mouth but he didn't move his lips, soft steps and his hands gentle on curved waist.

_Apple pie_. Wilson looked at him, dark eyes alive and smiling.

"How very fifties of you." Hands around his waist, his lips brushing with a gentle caress against the back of Wilson's neck. He felt the sigh he caused in the deep recesses of his heart, closing his eyes as the other man leant back into his embrace.

'_I don't hear you complaining'_ House smiled at the voice that echoed inside his head, his body warmed by the sugar and spice in his low mirth.

He'd never complain.

He turned him slowly, hands resting lightly on hips as he brought their lips together, soft, long...slow, lashes fluttering against his cheek. Hands against his face, warm and covered in something sticky, something sweet that he breathed in.

He pushed him back against the counter top, craving the taste of him and the sweet tang of the apples he'd been sneaking. His foot slipped, skidding across the floor and Wilson smiled against his lips. _Careful, the floor's wet_.

House looked down, the floor dark and shining red.

He stepped back, those hands slipping from his face and he staggered to see them, blood curling and dripping from his fingers.

"What...?"

It was everywhere, soaking his t-shirt, drenched and dripping from the hem, Wilson tipped his head, his eyes tinged with sadness and hurt. _You noticed the tree...but you didn't see this?_

He woke with a start, eyes wide and heart racing.

He sat forward, hand clutched at his chest as he stared furiously around the room for what had woken him, but everything was silent, the same low beeps and clicks of monitors doing their jobs, he couldn't even hear anyone at the nurses' station or noise from the traffic outside.

House stood on shaking legs, eyes fixing on the bed, on the gentle rise and fall of breaths beneath the covers. He ran his head along the guard rail of the bed, soaking up the peaceful sight, so different to just a few hours ago.

He'd panicked. He'd lost control.

Stood numbly by and watched as his colleagues took over, frenzied and barked orders distorting in his ears as he tried not to see the pain on Wilson's face. He looked now to the line that ran in thick coils between the bars of the bed, the inside flecked with blood as it drained the fluid that had left him choking, images of Chase wincing with sympathy as he pushed the trocar through skin and muscle running through his mind.

His hand hovered over Wilson's, just an inch apart but widening to a gulf by his guilt and shame.

The last vestiges of his dream clung to his memory like wisps of rain drenched clouds, overlapping the waking vision of Wilson sleeping, his face lined with pain even in his own restless dreams. He hadn't even had the strength to hold his hand, to reach out and offer the smallest comfort when he had held out his hand, had left it for Cuddy to hold him, to grip his hand and tell him that everything was going to be fine.

He'd never felt more pathetic and wretched in his life.

He left the cool, dark room and its sleeping occupant, stepping out into the harshly lit corridor and heading up to his office, he looked closely at the nurses and orderlies he passed, none of them sparing him a glance, no backwards looks as he walked past them.

"I suppose some sorts of thanks are in order." He muttered drily as he stalked into the differential room, his team sat at the table in scrubs. "Either that or what passes for gossip these days has far surpassed the social norm." He slumped into the couch as Cameron rushed to pour him a coffee. He rubbed at his neck idly, soothing the ache from having slept in a chair for who knows how long.

"Not exactly our place to say anything." Chase pointed out good naturedly.

House stared him down as he took the proffered coffee, waiting until Chase looked away to inhale the steam, sighing in relief as it wormed its way into his lungs, chasing away the icy dread that had startled him from his sleep.

"Besides, whilst it might be fun to belittle you for actually bowing to mortal emotions, Wilson is our friend too." Foreman looked at him pointedly and House rolled his eyes, hiding the twitch that made him want to turn his face away in shame.

"How's he doing?" Cameron looked at him with her puppy dog eyes and he fought the snarl that threatened to curl his lips.

"Where have you been?" He snapped, cup trembling in his hands.

Cameron backed up in her chair, reeling from the steel in his voice. He sighed roughly waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Ask Chase." He muttered, he didn't trust his own judgement. He knew Foreman was frowning at him, assessing him coolly.

"He's doing well," Chase said slowly. "He was hypertensive for a while after the effusion, his blood pressure keeps fluctuating but it's within a safe range. He's responding well to treatment."

House bit down on his tongue to stop his retort, itching to mock his scripted remark. He hadn't expected much more from him, Chase was too much like him in terms of constraint, maybe he hadn't always been but it was something that settled over him after years of working under House.

Just one more person burdened by his self destructive, narccesistic tendencies.

"Well, that's good isn't it?" Cameron beamed at him, ever the optimist.

Chase was looking at him, an odd and heavy weight to his guarded stare.

"Cuddy been keeping you busy?" House asked, holding that gaze up until the point Chase looked away.

"It's still pretty chaotic downstairs." Foreman piped up, thankful for some even ground, "A lot of rounds work."

"Can I talk to you?" Chase had stood sharply, the chair scraping back on the floor as he fixed House with a pervasive stare and cut Foreman off in the middle of his speech.

There was a tense moment where Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances, something significant obviously taking place. They both stood, clutching their coffees and denying House the chance to fend Chase's request off with the pretence of having company. They obviously knew him too well.

Chase waited until the door swung shut and the figures of his team mates had disappeared around the corner before he took his seat again, turning to face House with his elbows braced on knees, a fierce look on his face.

"How are _you_ coping?"

"How is that psychiatry course going?" House countered sarcastically.

"I'm asking, House." Not a request, but a statement, his face open but not with the kind of patronising sympathy he'd get from anybody else. "I saw you in there." His eyes didn't even flicker to gesture the ICU, staring dead ahead and rooting House firmly to the spot.

He felt his mouth go dry but didn't quite have the will or the energy yet to bring the mug to his lips, to replace one bitter taste with another. Chase had not only seen House fail, he'd seen why as well.

"I'm not even going to pretend to understand the situation," Chase leant back in his chair. "Hell, I don't even think I'd want to understand..." he met House's stare with cool blue eyes, "He's got you big time."

"Don't." House expected it to sound like a warning, the threat was there but the intensity failed.

"Don't what?" Chase countered. "What are you afraid of me saying?"

He didn't know, just didn't want it all said out loud, not when trapped in the web of that stare that confirmed Chase knew too much.

"I'm tired, I'm not playing games." House rubbed his hand over his face.

"Who said I'm playing?"

He narrowed his eyes. He had to be loving this, to have seen him in a weak moment, the opportunity to degrade him offered up to him on a silver platter.

House said nothing.

"I'm guessing it was his move."

He remained in silence.

"No way you'd leave yourself open like that."

"What do you want Chase?" he finally sniped.

"I don't want anything House."

"Then what are you harping on about?" He could feel irritation pricking at his skin.

"Just wondering what your deal is."

"You're very close to getting on my last nerve."

"What are you going to do? Break up with me?" he said it with a slight arch to his brow, but where House expected to see a cocky smirk he was met instead with a look of open ire, as though egging him on. House froze.

"What are you doing?" Chase asked lowly.

He wanted to make some smart alec remark about drinking coffee but Chase's sudden and upfront demeanour had rattled him. "I don't know." He admitted weakly, feeling utterly wretched.

They sat in silence for a while as the coffee cooled in the bottom of his mug and his fingers became numb to the residual heat.

"Even you're not that much of an ass." Chase said softly, bringing his face up to meet House's solemn gaze.

"You know me that well?" He retorted smartly.

"I know you well enough to know you wouldn't do that to Wilson."

House let his mouth snap shut. "Yeah, well, I don't even know me right now."

"You don't care about him?" Chase sounded self righteous.

"I didn't say that."

"He's you're best friend," Chase insisted. "The one constant in your life that has never once let you down when it meant something, the only one who puts up with you when the rest of us think you're being petty and childish, he's the only one who holds any sort of control over you and you couldn't even hold his hand...is it all just another one of your games? Just a bit of fun to shock your employees when..."

"I can't be what he wants me to be." House interrupted the tirade, every word like an iced knife in his chest that stung of betrayal, the core of his insecurity leaping out from him. He saw Chase lean back, a close look on his face. "I can't give him what he wants." He looked down at the remains of the coffee in his mug. "Best he knows that now rather than..." He couldn't even bring himself to say it, that he had already anticipated the demise of the relationship like solving a math problem and adding in all the factors only to continuously come across the wrong conclusion.

"How very selfless of you." Chase retorted in a deadened voice.

House looked up at him with steeled eyes. "You think I'd be a good choice for him?"

Chase tilted his heads, his bottom lips seized between his teeth as he contemplated House. "I think he'd be good for you." He said softly.

House felt all the fight drain from him, eyes down and not even flickering when Chase stood, his movement washed out in the peripherals of his vision. He closed his eyes, licking his dry lips as he desperately tried to ignore the wild adrenaline surge that flooded him every time he thought of the way those deft fingers ran through his hair, the warmth of those lips...the way they could sit side by side for hours in silence.

God, but he _wanted_ him.

,',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',',','

Wilson was awake when he finally dredged up the courage to wander back to his room and he took a moment to look at him through the glass as he stared up at the ceiling. He looked terrible, which was perfectly acceptable given the circumstance, but there was a tired glaze in his eyes as he looked unseeing at the ceiling tiles that House knew was entirely down to him.

He slid open the door, the soft noise drawing Wilson's attention and House could feel the tension in his face as he tried to smile, failing miserably.

"Hey." He shut the door behind him and limped heavily towards him, stopping short of the bed and standing awkwardly. "How are you feeling?"

Wilson looked at him blankly, his gaze sweeping over his face and making House feel stripped bare before the smallest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I'm just peachy." He whispered. "I get the impression Chase used a hammer to get this in?" He lifted up the tube that ran from between his ribs.

House felt something akin to a laugh rising up his throat at Wilson's dry levity at the surgeon's gung ho approach to emergency medicine. "Sounds about right." He quipped. "How's the paralysis coming along?"

Wilson looked at the arm House gestured to, raising it weakly and letting it thump back down to the bed. "Better."

House picked up the chart to check his assessment and noted the absence of his reactions. He dropped the clipboard on the bed and opened the equipment drawer to root around for the tendon hammer. "I think its best I be the judge." He remarked dryly, leaning his cane on the end of the bed and rustling at the sheets, gathering them up to expose Wilson's leg.

"Sensation feels back to normal."Wilson muttered, pressing his head back into the pillow as House struck at the soft spot below his knee.

"And strength?" House reorganised the blankets, settling them gently and smoothing them down. He seized Wilson's wrist, settling himself down on the bed as he held his arm along his own, pressing his thumb into the crook of his elbow and focusing on the tapping of the hammer to quell the frightening adrenaline that made his heart race at having placed himself so close.

"What you said yesterday..."Wilson spoke softly, the words long and drawn out between them.

"Wilson." He knew it had to come.

"Did you mean it?" He could feel where he stared at him, his face flushed under his gaze.

House gently released Wilson's arm, laying it back down beside his body and remarking just how at odds it was to see the hospital printed blankets nestling beneath his skin, how much he disliked Wilson being here. His guilt and his remorse as having placed them both in this situation made his stomach feel sour, bile rising in the back of his throat and he couldn't for the life of him bring himself to turn to meet the warm gaze he'd always loved.

"Just had this conversation with Chase." House snuffed, rubbing a thumb along one eyebrow.

"Well, I'm glad someone's been talking about it." There was a humorous bite to his retort.

House nodded, he deserved his ire. "He said that..."

"I don't care what Chase said." Wilson snapped. "I don't care what Cuddy said, I care what you say."

House felt Wilson shift, pushing himself further up the bed and gasping with pain as the movement caused the chest tube to tug against the stitched holding it in place. House turned sharply to help, his hand halfway to placing itself on Wilson's chest to keep him still, but it was caught up, held at the wrist and he had no choice then but to be drawn in by those eyes. "What happened?"

House sighed, unable to extricate himself from the weak grip that encircled his wrist, a large part of him wanting to turn his hand, to let himself thread his fingers through Wilson's and just hold on.

"I've been thinking, "he said slowly. "And I've realised that maybe it would not be in your best interests...for us to...see each other." He finished lamely, despising the taste of the words in his mouth and the way Wilson's fingers trembled as they clung lightly to his arm.

"And why do you say that?" His voice was trembling too.

House felt the sharp laugh burst out of him. "You need to ask? Look at me."

"I am looking at you." Soft and sad and implying so much more than House had expected.

"I'm being serious." House countered just as quietly. "I'm an ass, I'm narcissistic, arrogant, juvenile, petty...and I will...hurt you." He dropped his eyes to avoid seeing the jolt of confusion and hurt roll across Wilson's face.

"You don't want this?" Wilson's hold on his finally slipped away.

"I just don't want to risk losing our friendship...or you." He whispered, glancing up briefly to watch the nurses at their station quickly look away.

"And you don't even want to try?" Now Wilson really sounded hurt.

"I ...don't think it will be worth the risk." House brought his hands up to rub at his face, to rub away the tense lines that he could feel creasing his face.

The bed shifted a little, blankets rustling as Wilson moved. "And what if I'm willing to risk it?"

House turned his face to look at him, a pained and desperate hope fixed upon his face. "You really think it would be happily ever after?" He wanted to inject a little snideness to make Wilson truly appreciate what he was asking for but he fell short at self deprecation.

"Of course not, and...You said yes the other day." He reminded him. "It only took you two days to stop caring?"

"I care!" House cut him off with vehemence, his rebuttal sharp and bouncing from the walls, he stood abruptly wishing desperately that he had the ability to pace. "Of course I care, I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"You care enough that you don't want to hurt me, but not enough to try and make me happy?" Wilson tried to sound sceptical.

"Not hurting you will keep you happy." House countered.

The air in the room felt stuffy, the sun that filtered through the blinds catching on drifting motes of dust and providing House with a brief moment of focus as he watched them dance and eddy through the air.

"I'll have to leave." Wilson said quietly. "I'll need a few days to sort some things out..."

"Leave?" House was sure the surprise had registered on his face, Wilson wasn't looking at him, had instead turned away to look at the people who bustled back and forth on the other side of the glass.

"Can't exactly stay." Wilson muttered, a pained smile swiftly gracing his lips and in the resounding silence that followed.

"James?" The utterance of his name caused Wilson to press his eyes shut and in the light House caught the sight of a single tear cascade down his cheek, brief and shimmering until it fell and was captured in the folds of his hospital issue gown.

"I'm agreeing with you House." He said thickly, steadfastly keeping his gaze averted as House rounded the end of the bed, his leg strained and on fire.

House felt lost for words, had expected more of a fight, more vitriol and anger. He hadn't expected this, the turned away gaze and the embarrassed flush as Wilson fought to keep his tears in check and he really was all the names he ever been called in his life, being first and foremost a heartless bastard. He sat back on the edge of the bed, reaching out on instinct to hold his hand to Wilson's face and trying not to notice how he flinched at his touch. "Don't." He stroked his thumb across his cheek.

"Please don't." Wilson pushed his hand away, ducking his head as a nurse looked in as she walked past. "I'll agree with you," he whispered softly, "just tell me it's really what you want." He looked up at House through wet lashes.

House shook his head, neck stiff and protesting the motion. "It's not that I want it, it's that I think it's for the best." God, he hated himself so much right now, hated everything that had made him the way he was, his hand curled into the sheets, gripping them tight in his fist.

"_I love you_."

Said so quietly that House could almost imagine he'd heard him, some trick of his mind that elicited a heart wrenching thrill and made his breath fall short. "You shouldn't."

His hand was teased from its frantic grip, Wilson's skin cool against his own as he held him tightly in his grip, hand shaking as he brought them to his lips so he could place the lightest of kisses to House's fingers, his breath ghosting and warming over his skin and House could feel his resolve waver in the wake of such a simple act, brought to the edge of his determination by the feel of tears pressed into the palm of his hand as Wilson uncurled his fingers, placing House's hand to his face and leaning into it with a pained expression that made him want to take it all back, to swear unwavering fealty. "I'm so sorry." He choked, feeling the words thick in his throat.

He pulled his hand back, afraid that if he stayed now he would never leave, that it would lead them down a path that would hurt and destroy the both of them.

He stood on shaking legs, urging himself to control the furious desires that shook every part of him and failing. He caught Wilson's lips with a devastating passion, his fingers carding into his hair as his eyes slid close, memorising the taste and the feel of him and the way his heart exploded with euphoric joy in the brief moment they were pressed together.

And then he straightened and turned, catching his long fingers on his cane and leaning heavily on it as he stalked out of the room without looking back.


	10. Chapter 10

House checked his watch, angling it in the light to catch the movement of the second had as it rounded off another minute.

Two days.

Forty eight hours.

Each minute felt like an actual weight placed around his shoulders, pulling him down. He dropped his head back against the couch, heaving a sigh that left him feeling empty and bereft.

He'd not returned, had even gone so far as to avoid the ICU entirely to rid himself of the temptation to cast a wary eye over Wilson as he'd slept. Instead he had thrown himself headlong into hours of numbing rounds and paperwork, spending his breaks watching the workmen repair the outer wall of the hospital and watching updates on the news, anything to keep his mind occupied.

It was a fruitless endeavour as he knew very well it would be, but it was something he had willed himself to try none the less, keeping his mind and body active until it came time to roughly swallow more pills that were needed to coax him in to a restless slumber filled with shadows of blood and tears that he woke from feeling empty and wasted.

Nobody had approached him, he'd steered clear of Cuddy and avoided Chase like the plague, some dormant coward within himself fearing the judgement he would see in the young man's eyes. His uncharacteristic behaviour was enough to set alarm bells ringing, and had it been any other day he would no doubt have been pursued mercilessly and berated on his next Machiavellian plan, but it wasn't just an average day, and people knew what was bothering him. The fact they left him to his own devices should have worried him more.

He reached up to rub at his brow, listening numbly to the muted sounds of the streaming news reports and thanking whatever nameless deities that yesterday's hangover had finally relieved itself of him. Surely he'd not been legal to work, his blood alcohol level must have been bordering on obscene after he'd shown up at work, memories of the night before completely lost and obscured past the point where he'd let slip to the barman that he was a doctor, resulting in a tide of drinks being bought for him, and him not being one to turn down a drink had gratefully accepted, if only to smear away the image of the hurt he'd inflicted on Wilson's face.

He was miserable. Achingly so.

He hadn't felt like this since Stacy left and even then he'd been more preoccupied by the hurt and anger he'd felt towards her to recognise whether he'd still loved her. But this...this was something else, this was being given the ticket to your dream and having to turn it down because the price of admission was too high.

He'd tried over and over again to rationalise his decisions , tried to make him see the logic of his own selfish concerns, but each and every time he coerced himself into an internal diatribe he was interrupted by fleeting images, the rhythmic twitching of his fingers as they remembered the feel of silken skin beneath his touch, the way Wilson's body had arched up against his as he'd kissed him.

He groaned and sat forward, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes to fight the images burning behind his lids, feeling his breath coagulate into a hot and desperate sob that threatened to overwhelm him.

Was he being selfish? To give up on something such as this to stop them both from hurting all the more later on.

He checked his watch again, comparing it to the clock on the wall.

Cuddy had phoned him a couple hours ago to let him know that Wilson was being discharged, his last MRI had come back clean and he'd persuaded them to let him leave based upon their desperate need for beds, much to the displeasure of the staff who had tried to persuade him to stay and rest.

He'd considered not being there when Wilson came home, it would be easy enough to go back to the hospital and immerse himself in his work, or to traipse his way back to the bar for a repeat performance of the other night, but he'd decided against it, the faint remembrance of Wilson telling him he would leave rooting him in the apartment, as though House thought that by missing him now would mean he'd never see him again.

He looked around their shared home, and their influences combined, books and magazines piled up beside the couch, small trinkets collected and displayed in awkward crannies. The place hadn't been dusted for a couple weeks, something House never did and only noticed now in Wilson's absence as he dragged his fingers along the piano, drawing faint lines in the dust before letting them land on the keys, a dischorded sound emanating from within and perfectly accompanying the solemn dull ache that tightened his chest.

It wasn't just that he was afraid of hurting Wilson, it was knowing what their combined track record was. Throughout his life House had always been the one that had clung on despite his efforts to push away, he'd always been the one left raw and lonely, whereas Wilson had always been the one to leave, to grow bored of his relationships when they no longer needed him and casting them off in search of the next girl with issues. They would never work together, they'd proved that throughout the years, House couldn't bring himself to bow to contentment and Wilson would grow tired when he showed no motivation to change.

Change.

He'd spent hours just pondering the notion, as to whether he were capable. He never had the need before his leg took a turn for the worst, he and Stacy had had a great relationship, he'd been happy, they had been going somewhere. And then it had all gone to hell.

And Wilson had been the one to help pick up the pieces, to watch him build the wall up around his heart and close himself off from the world. He'd been the one to watch him go through the procession of one night stands, hookers and shallow meaningless flings that filled the years since. And in return he'd been the one who said nothing when Wilson crashed on his couch for the night, had given him the key so he didn't even need to ask next time and played the partner in their dance of ruined relationships, circling each other closer and closer until they inevitably came together in their bizarre duet, using each other as an excuse not to pursue anything with any real meaning.

Living with Wilson had been the closest he'd come to feeling complete, to know that he had someone to come back to that knew him better than anyone else, who knew when to push him and when to let go, who looked after him in his own way and never held him back.

He'd been an integral part of his life, something he'd tried to deny as he grown to rely on him, had come to realise his feelings for him had warped and evolved into something that had left him craving his presence.

He chewed on his lip, balling his fist and rapping it lightly on the keys. He was completely and utterly fucked whichever way he looked at it. If he caved, he'd lose Wilson. If he didn't, he'd still lose him.

He didn't hear the door open, the key turning in the lock but the sound of it shutting loudly reverberated through the apartment, making him flinch as his entire body threatened to shut down right then and there.

"I didn't think you'd be home." Wilson sounded awful, looked just as bad, his eyes ringed with tiredness and skin pale in the dim light of the floor lamps. House felt his throat go dry, his lungs seize as his heart thumped painfully in his chest.

Yeah, he was definitely fucked. Hadn't realised just how much he'd missed him until he was standing awkwardly at the doorway.

"Cuddy said you discharged yourself, probably best someone knew you got home safe." He muttered, not trusting his voice at all least it betray the war that was being fought between his mind and his heart.

"I got a cab." Wilson replied softly. "Was just going to go straight to bed." He tossed a paper bag onto the kitchen counter, its contents rattling ominously as he shrugged out of his jacket.

House's curiosity overcame him and he limped across the divide to root into the bag, ignoring Wilson's irritated frown. "They got you on the good stuff?" he tipped the contents out, several rattling bottles crowding together on the countertop and lined up by House's hand, each tipped back as the labels were read. Not that there were any surprises, but he felt a guilty twitch in his stomach as he thought about some other doctor prescribing his take homes. His fingers tightened on the last bottle, reading the label twice. "What do you need this for?" House looked up, turning the bottle so that the Vicodin label faced Wilson.

"I still have a plueritic intake." He reached out and swiped them from House's hand, "Some of us are capable of using them as prescribed."

"If it hurts you to breath Wilson, you shouldn't have left the hospital."

"Can we please spare the lecture for another time, I'm exhausted." Wilson leaned heavily back against the countertop, hands brought up to cover his face.

"Nearly dying will do that to you." House quipped softly.

Wilson glared at him, his cheeks flushing despite his pallor. "You can go back to the hospital now." It sounded more like an order than a hint.

House pressed his lips together, letting Wilson's ire wash over him and wondering why he always had to be an ass, why he couldn't have just welcomed him home and let him crash out without making some wise crack asinine comments that caused them both to get their backs up. "I can stay." He offered quietly, running his knuckles along the countertop, his arm spreading out just far enough that he could brush against Wilson's arm if he chose. He chanced glancing up, taking in the softened lines around Wilson's eyes, a slight pain making them seem dull.

"You don't have to." There was an underlying tension in his reply.

House sucked in a breath, felt it stretch his lungs. "I want to." He muttered quietly.

Wilson's clothes rustled as he folded his arms briefly, his face pained and flinching at the pressure on his chest and he let them hang instead, awkward and stiff as he turned his face away. "Please House, I don't have the energy for this...I can't..." his breathing hitched and the pained lines around his eyes deepened for a moment. He pushed away from the counter suddenly, scooping the bottles of pills back into the bag as he passed them on the way to the fridge, its door yielding under his force as he retrieved a bottle of mineral water.

"I don't mean to start anything." House said quickly, causing Wilson to pause, his hand braced and leaning against the fridge.

"That much is clear." Wilson countered dully, he turned his face just enough for House to see his profile.

"I just meant," He ignored the barb, "...I just wanted to...I want to make sure you're okay." He finished lamely, feeling very much out of character.

Wilson had turned away again, looking down the hallway to where the door to his room stood open, enticing and welcoming after his ordeal. He straightened, hand hanging loosely at his side. "I'm fine."

"Wilson?" House sighed.

"I'm fine." He snapped, swaying as he stepped forward and House rolled his eyes as he limped forward, catching Wilson by the arm before he could make it even two steps.

"Yeah, you seem great." He felt the arm in his grip tense as Wilson turned on him, an odd shine to his red rimmed eyes.

"Okay House, I'm not!" he spat, shrugging the hand from his arm. "I've had a shit week, my place of work was targeted in a terrorist attack, I sustained a head injury which led to complications that _still hurt, _and this..."He gestured between them, "this total fuck up that I have held back for years and promised myself that I would never be so stupid as to hope..." He choked, "...and you..." he turned away, furiously looking anywhere but at House but he couldn't hide the hitch in his breath, the thickness that cloyed his words.

House reached out, his hand on Wilson's shoulder and moving to his neck when he tried to shrug him off. "Wilson...I..."

"Don't."

He ignored the protest, the quiet sound of denial that whispered from Wilson's lips as House let his hand curl gently around his neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the soft scratch of stubble as he brushed his thumb along the length of his jaw. He stepped closer, only inches between them, his other hand coming to rest gently against Wilson's back, barely there.

He felt hands clasp gently at the shirt by his waist, a feeble, trembling hold that that made House close the slight distance, pulling him close, his hand running up and through hair, holding him as Wilson tucked his head in underneath House's chin, his breath warmth and uneven against his neck, causing a thrill that shivered through him, swallowing roughly against the temptation of images of where this night could lead.

He could feel Wilson trembling, but from exhaustion and pain or something else, he couldn't tell, could only go on the soft and hesitant sigh that broke across his own heated skin as he used his hand placed on the small of his back to draw him closer, feeling the burning heat beneath his shirt soak into the palm of his hands. His cheek rested against his hair, soft and achingly familiar in a way he shouldn't have known, his lips parted, inching closer and closer until he could press them gently to the soft skin below his ear, feeling Wilson seize his shirt tighter in his grip as he left them there, his own shaking breaths heating the infinitesimal space between them. One perfect moment captured in time. And then...

"No." Wilson pushed at him, his hands pressed against his chest and the gulf between them widened, House's heart feeling every inch as a physical string stretched and pulled taut, ready to snap.

House staggered, arms suddenly bereft and caught up in dark eyes, hurt radiating from every pore. "I thought you wanted..."

"I don't want your guilt House!" Wilson looked incredulous.

House could feel the cold dread of confusion prickling at the back of his neck.

"You've already played me for the fool with whatever's going on in that messed up mind of yours, I can't even begin to imagine what stupid shitty reason you've concocted to excuse yourself from your own hurt...to make this okay...but I don't want to hear it." Wilson stood straight, staring House down, one hand gravitated to his ribs where stitches pulled at his skin.

He hadn't expected that, deserved it, yes, but expected it, no.

"I don't want to be a part of your games." Wilson whispered brokenly, head canted to the side and eyes pained.

House dipped his head, extricating himself from the full force of his stare, noting dumbly the bag of pills and the bottle of water dumped on the floor, wondering how he hadn't heard Wilson drop them. "It isn't a game." He muttered lowly.

"Then what is this?" he saw Wilson's hand go wide, watched it swing back to thump against his side. "You can't do this...you can't just change your mind... keep rewriting the rules..." god, he sounded so defeated. "You can't tell me one day that this is what you want, and then turn your back the next." He took a couple of steps back, leaning again on the kitchen counter, he rubbed tiredly at his face.

"I'm sorry." House's lips felt numb, Wilson's rebuttal like a stinging backhand across his face.

They stood in silence, the muted sound of the traffic outside vibrating the air and lending a soporific quality to the heat that crept with the sun's rays through the cracks in the corners.

Wilson grunted, pushing at the countertop and passing House without touching him, his eyes only focused on retrieving the pills that would drag him into a deep and dreamless sleep. "I'm going to bed." He swiped the bag and the bottle from the floor, already rooting in the bag for the same pills House used to dull his own pains.

House felt his throat tighten, his chest ached with a physical pain, each beat of his heart punctuated his confliction, the war between his conscience and the raw, aching need to have Wilson in his arms. He couldn't let him leave, couldn't let this go today, knowing that if he did the moment would be lost, the right time would not come again, Wilson would leave. He'd pack up his bags and play the role of the martyr to save them both from the hurt, winding himself back on their friendship.

Wilson had taken a leap of faith.

Now it was his turn. Take the chance, for better or worse.

"I'm in love with you James."


	11. Chapter 11

The scene seemed to freeze, he could see Wilson's gait falter just before he turned into his room, House's soft admission sounding more like one of guilt and shattering the illusion that this was anything like a game.

"What?" House could only just hear the breathy whisper from where he stood, still reeling from having said out loud what he had spent so long trying to deny.

He clamped his mouth shut, pulling his lip between his teeth and worrying at it as he heard the soft sound of Wilson padding back slowly into the living room, hovering in the doorway so that he was covered in the shadows that hugged the edges of the room.

He shook his head, realising it was now too late to deny the quiet vehemence that had just escaped him. There was the soft sound of Wilson putting down the water and the pills on the consol table, and when he chanced a quick glance he could see him stood still, both hands curled around the back of his neck, framing his face with his arms and blocking his expression from sight.

"What's going on House?" he asked him quietly, sounding weary and pained, he squeezed his hands once and then let them fall, turning his face to meet his and root him to the spot with his darkened gaze.

"I don't know." House whispered, a pointless and useless lie made up the face of being able to coherently form the words he wanted to say. He never planned this far ahead, had never thought he'd ever utter those words in his lifetime, at least not to Wilson. Sure, he's thought about other things, fleeting daydreams of what it would be like to hold him, to run his fingers through his hair and to spend entire Sunday's relaxed on the couch. But he'd never dared to dream that he would actually have the courage to admit how he felt, not out loud, not to his face.

"You don't know?" there was something almost humorous behind the desperation. "House, you said you didn't..." Wilson rubbed at his face, edgy and stilted as he paused for a moment, slowly drawing a breath in and holding it for a moment, a brief glance of pain across his face. "What do you want, House?"

He fought the childish urge to thrust his hands into his pockets, anything to keep them busy from the way he flexed his fingers back and forth into fists. "You." His voice was small in the dark apartment and although he'd looked away he could still feel where Wilson's eyes had locked onto his face. "But, I don't want to...lose you." There, he'd said it. He'd said it before, something casual and tossed out there and perceived as a minor insecurity, but there was no way now it could be taken as such, not when he'd spent two days avoiding the ICU, refusing to answer the calls of his fellows and the repeated attempts to page him with new results. No, now it was something visceral, almost physical, an imperfect reflection of how utterly damaged and afraid he was. "I can't not have you in my life." He turned then, facing and meeting Wilson's sad gaze to let the full impact of his fears hit home.

"I told you..." Wilson stepped forward, his hands wide and open in either supplication or offering. "You can't lose me." He held House's gaze. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Not now." House countered, a sad bitterness creeping in to his voice. "But you will." He dropped his focus again. "They always leave. I always do something."

"I'm not asking you to change; I'll never ask you to change." Wilson offered, closer now than before, blocking more of the light as he moved to stand before him.

"You can't fix me." House said soberly.

"I don't even want to try."

"You'll leave." He sounded so certain, resigned before even starting. "You'll leave because I'll go one step too far, you'll get tired of having to look after me, of making excuses for me, and you will leave." He raised his chin, dragging his eyes up and over the soft and shadowed layers of clothes before him, drinking up the sight of Wilson bathed in the half light, the way the lamp muted the lines of his face, making him seem unbearably young. He could feel his eyes begin to burn. "I'm scared that..." he throat clenched, an odd choking noise swallowing around the tightness that constricted him.

"Scared of what?" they were less than a foot apart, the air between them heavy and electric, every painful jolt of adrenaline pouring through House's heart spurred on by the aching need to let his fingers smooth away the sorrow that pinched at Wilson's face.

"That if I hold on now, I won't be able to let go later. I'm terrified of what that might do to me..." he clenched his hands to stop them rising. "And I would rather spend another twenty years just being your friend than..." he sighed, letting the implication fill in the blanks. "You have no idea..." He almost laughed, the situation he'd found himself in almost overwhelming. "...the power you hold over me."

He let his eyes drift close, felt the breath in his lungs pull and stretch, heard the pulse beat in his ears in the silence that followed his deadened admission. He'd said his piece, had lain himself bare and he felt neither better nor worse for it, like he had placed his next card on the table but that they were still so early on in the game that it felt almost inconsequential, because he knew he would lose, no matter how he played.

"I want to try." Wilson's hands on his arms, warmth and fragility permeating through his shirt and dancing across his skin, making him shiver. "I want to make it work, I don't want to carry on...not...knowing." He was so much closer now; he could feel it in the way Wilson's words ghosted across the skin of his neck, breath faltering and heart racing. "Please." Breathed against his cheek.

His fingers brushed against Wilson's back, seeking and finding the comforting warmth of his skin beneath his shirt, drifting up smoothing over the familiar feel of his body beneath his touch.

He leant back, opening his eyes and finding Wilson's gaze averted, embarrassed or ashamed at having resorted to pleading. He held his finger to Wilson's chin, turning him so that the light caught the tears on his face.

He was foolish to think he could ever deny him.

Was stupid for even trying.

Eyes opened, dark and glittering in the half light as he searched House's face for a glimmer of something...anything. His heart skipped a beat, breath shallow as he traced the path of his tears, smudging them with his thumb and he wiped them away. "You always look so beautiful when you cry." He whispered, more of an afterthought that had found its own voice and rested briefly upon his lips as he watched his own hand move to hold against Wilson's cheek, fingertips drifting into his hair as he pressed into his touch, eyes never leaving his own.

House stepped forward, his forehead resting lightly on Wilson's, hands drifting into his hair and holding him close as he felt the unsure slip of Wilson's arm's circling his waist, another soft plea muttered softly into the space between them.

"It won't be easy." He told him quietly.

"I know." A calm and hushed acceptance, the hands on his back flaring and pulling him closer, head tilting until their lips brushed.

House swallowed, tongue lapping at his dry lips. "I want everything." He said, either a warning or a last ditch attempt to make Wilson see some sort of sense.

"You can have it." Promised just before Wilson kissed him, pressing up into him and making House's hand clench tightly in his hair, one short and sober moment of lingering doubt before he pressed back, chaste and slow and heartbreakingly perfect. Wilson sighed against him, hands moving across his back, gentle fleeting touches that mapped his body through his clothes as House moved his thumb to trace where their lips pressed together, trying to stop his own noise of pleasure as Wilson opened his mouth, drawing him in to glorious heat, his tongue soft and pliant and meeting house stroke for stroke. He stepped lightly when House pushed him back, two steps and then the cushioned back of the couch against the back of his thighs, settling down and sighing deeply as their bodies dragged against each other as the angle of their fervour changed, the hands in his hair drifting down his neck and House smiled into the kiss as Wilson shivered beneath his touch.

"Say it again." Wilson's hand on his chest, turning and twisting into his shirt and drawing him close, knees parting so he could stand flush against him. House smiled, slow and gentle kisses stoking the fires as he let his tongue draw heat across his bottom lip, teeth grazing over the path and he turned to follow it across his cheek, feeling Wilson's lashes brush against his own, pushing forward and nuzzling gently as the soft skin beneath Wilson's ear and savouring the quiet, heady moan as he whispered faintly "I love you."

The hand that had been pressed firmly to his chest moved, smoothing down his stomach and dragging at his shirt, sudden warmth as it slipped beneath his tee, nails scraping across his skin and making his stomach jolt. "You're not going to run away again are you?" Wilson muttered, sounding unsure and turned on at the same time, responding to the hot kisses House pressed against his neck, the way he pulled at the collar of his shirt so he could sweep his tongue over his heated skin.

"I won't if you won't." He promised, drawing back up to capture his lips again, swallowing the sigh that pushed into his mouth and replying with his own quiet moan at the feel of Wilson's hands beneath his shirt.

"I'm not going anywhere." Said between kisses as Wilson stood, hands sliding up and around his back, making House shiver and moan, his own hands threaded into thick hair and pulling him close, holding him so he could kiss him deeper, lapping at the taste of him and savouring the thrill that shook his body. He slung his arms low around Wilson's waist, pulling him up against him as Wilson draped his arms around his neck, his body warm and soft as he stretched up against him.

They moved together, feet finding their own way and guiding them slowly as they spun in a slow dance, unhurried and enjoying the journey as they let hands wander, lips meet as they kissed each other slowly, names and pleas whispered against each other's lips.

House's room was exactly how they had left it days ago, the covers still loose, the bed unmade as he hadn't the heart or the courage to face returning to the last place he'd felt whole and clean. But that didn't matter now, not when he could guide Wilson down to lay in the soft tangle of sheets, ever mindful of the soft gasps of pain that House that he'd only just left the hospital. "You okay?" he whispered into the dark, fingertips tracing his cheek, slightly rough beneath his touch, the dark shine of Wilson's eyes searching his face in the heady gloom.

"I'm fine." The soft hint of a smile curling at his lips and House couldn't help but sweep down to capture it with his kiss, an intoxicating warmth spreading through his chest as Wilson ran his fingers through his hair, holding fast to the back of his neck and drawing him down to lay beside him.

His hand fit perfectly to the curve of Wilson's waist, thumb drawing slow and maddening circles through his shirt. House closed his eyes, pressing his face to Wilson's neck and breathing him in, his lips moving across soft and heated skin and he let out a low sound of pleasure as Wilson arched into him, sliding his knee between his legs and his hand beneath House's shirt flattened out against his back and pulled him closer, his breath heavy and restrained in House's ear.

Wilson's shirt rose beneath his hand, his fingers smoothing now over his skin, following the gentle lines and curve of his back, over the shifting of his body as he breathed, shallow and exhilarating and breathed in with every kiss that House stole from his lips, and suddenly it wasn't quite enough.

House dragged himself away, drawing up to balance on his knees and pulling Wilson up with him as he divested himself of his shirt, his hands reaching for Wilson's and pushing it up, momentarily obscuring the shy smile that graced his lips and mussing up his hair in a wonderfully endearing way, more so than House's hands when he ran his fingers through his hair a moment later, bringing them back together, their bodies flush and the thrill of skin on skin contact causing them both to gasp.

Wilson's hands were on his face, fingertips trembling over his cheeks, fluttering down and following the line of the wild beat of his heart in his throat, his palms pushing against his chest as he tipped his head back, allowing more room for House to lick and kiss and bite his way down his neck, his hands coming to rest low on his back to hold him, keeping him from falling back under the onslaught.

House's thumb caught the brittle edges of stitches, a hiss of pain echoing in his ear when he pressed too hard. He rocked back onto his knees, hands on Wilson's waist as he stared at the harsh intrusion marring his skin, the flesh around it mottled and bruised from the force needed to push the metal through skin and muscle. He leant forward, his fingers drifting reverentially over his skin, warm breath following the path and leading him into pressing the softest of kisses to the bruised flesh. He felt Wilson sigh in the way his stomach moved beneath his lips, the gentle tremble lapped up by the long, slow draw of his tongue. Wilson's hands were on his shoulders, drawing idle patterns and pressing down firmly with every graze of teeth that dragged across his skin, his fingers twisting into his hair and holding him closer to his chest as House worked his way up, small peppered kisses scattered across his shoulders until he claimed Wilson's lips with renewed fervour, nudging them open and chasing the low sound he made with his tongue. House's hands worked slowly, hooking on the waistband of Wilson's jeans, thumbing the buttons undone and slipping his hands into the warmth beneath soft denim. "How far do you want to take this?" House mumbled into the hinge of Wilson's jaw, tongue tasting his skin as the pulse beneath his tongue raced. He knew Wilson was hurting, could hear it in the way his breathing hitched, odd mewling sounds of pained littered amongst the gasps and guarded moans. But he also knew Wilson would tell him when to stop.

"I want you." Wilson's breathy reply made House's heart leap in his chest, his hands flex and delve deeper into Wilson's jeans, pushing them down as Wilson's hands moved to tug at House's clothes. They fell back to the sheets, cool beneath Wilson's back and the perfect contradiction to the burning heat of House's tongue as it laved a heated path across his chest, his hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, running through his hair as he arched up into the hot open mouthed kisses.

"Have you ever done this before?" House mumbled into heated skin, hands digging into Wilson's hips as he listened to his laboured breaths.

Wilson tensed for one long moment, his hands stilling on House's shoulders. "No."

"Me neither." He turned his head to press his smile into the palm of Wilson's hand, kissing his fingers as they trailed across his lips. He pulled back, dragging his hands down Wilson's legs and pulling at his clothes and wishing he'd had the forethought to turn on the light as they'd entered so he could see him, could let his eyes soak in the image of Wilson spread out upon his bed, hair wild and eyes dark as he stared up at him. Instead he had to make do with the muted orange light that filtered in through the curtains outside and the sensory thrill of feeling every trembling sigh transferred into his hungry touch. He shirked his jeans, the cool air a shock on his skin and he made a diversion to his bedside table, fumbling through the drawer before returning, Wilson's hand already curling around his thigh in anticipation, reaching up to pull him down into an eager kiss. "God, feels like I've wanted this forever."

Wilson smiled against him, his fingers trailing in one long slow path down House's chest, fluttering across his stomach as he hovered over him, his soft laugh at the noise House made when his hand curled around him in a sure motion swallowed quickly in a fervent kiss, mouths wide and hungry and punctuated with a sigh as House mirrored his action, his arm shaking as it took all his weight, ignoring the burn in lieu of filing every heady whimper spilled forth from Wilson's lips to memory.

The air around them changed, became more charged, like a storm building around them, hot and heady and waiting to break as they worked each other with a familiar ease, knowing what would work to make the other gasp and moan, to make House drop his forehead to sweat glistened skin, to make Wilson arch up, a shock of pain lancing through him as his back left the bed. "Oh god House, please..."

Always one to take hint, House slumped onto his side, pushing at Wilson's shoulder until he could slide his arm beneath his neck, bringing them flush together, his chest pressed tight to his back and his heart beating hard enough for the both of them. He patted around for the tube he'd cast on the bed, paying more attention to the taste of Wilson's neck and the way he pressed back against him, his arm reaching back to curl his fingers into House's hair as he twisted to capture his mouth in a breathless kiss. "Love you." Whispered against his lips with an innocence that betrayed the moment, the look of childlike naivety replaced with a pained rapture as years of unrequited passion and ardent desire long held in check were finally dashed aside with the long, slow slide of them finally coming together. Wilson's fingers clenched painfully in his hair, breaths coming short and fast, gusting across his House's lips as he kissed away the hurt, his hand on his cheek, thumb stroking at the lines around his eyes.

"You okay?"

Wilson nodded, the movement sharp with his eyes pressed shut.

"I'm good." He gasped, pushing back against House and biting at his lip as he silenced the high note of discomfort.

"We can stop." House muttered, unsure even as he said it whether he could if he wanted to, he buried his face in Wilson's shoulder, fighting the urge to push forward into the glorious, burning heat, waiting and holding his breath as slowly, achingly slowly, Wilson's grip relaxed, moving with trembling uncertainty to curl around House's hand where he'd held it to his chest, heart hammering as their fingers thread together. He shook his head, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his other hand twisted madly in the sheets as he opened his eyes to gaze up at House, bright and shimmering in the faint light.

He pulled gently until their lips met, mouths soft and warm and wet as they kissed, slow and unhurried and filled with a burning tension that made House's stomach twist and jump, fire in his veins as slowly they began to move, needing to hear more frantic pleas drawn from their leisurely pace. "Say it again?" a soft request spoken softly into his mouth and House felt the tug of an indulgent smile pulling at his lips.

"I love you." Said at the perfect moment he hit something inside Wilson that made him groan and grip his hand tighter, turning to press his face into the pillow to gasp open mouthed into the cool, soft cotton as House pushed faster, moved their joined hands until he could curl his hand around him in a sure grip, moving in time to his quickening thrusts.

He'd waited years to say it, had had to bite his lips a thousand times to stop it from bursting forth during heated arguments and those times they held each other's eyes for just a second too long. To say it now was fantasy realised, to be able to hold him in his arms, to feel their skin slide together and hear Wilson gasp his name in pained desire was too much for him.

He pressed his face into Wilson's neck, eyes closed and mouth open, his breath hot and damp against the skin beneath his lips, licking and biting and muttering urgent obscenities that punctuated the soft, muffled cries captured by the pillow. He rolled them slightly, his hand grasping at Wilson's, fingers entwined as he crashed them down into the mattress by Wilson's head, pressing him further into the sheets and drinking in the impassioned cry that ripped from his chest with such a furious desire that it was wonder he didn't rip his stitches. House smiled, mapping the planes of Wilson's back with his tongue, tasting and biting and digging his fingers into Wilson's hips and he fought to control himself, to hold back.

He was too close, too caught up in the unadulterated thrill of this not being a fantasy of his own twisted mind, that it was real and it was now, and it was so much better than he'd ever dared to dream. He pulled back, hand curling round Wilson's shoulder to turn him suddenly, the desperate desire to see him in the shallow light overcoming the thought of Wilson's pain, the very real sting of his own as he pushed Wilson onto his back, eyes drawn together and locked in the dark, the thin glimmer of longing glittering in his dark eyes as they came together again, mouth caught in a deep and hungry kiss.

It was much better this way, to be able to kiss him as they moved, to feel his fingers gentle and trembling as they ran through his hair, his touch lingering over his cheeks, tracing his lips and the wonderful soft and breathtaking laugh as House licked at his fingertips, teeth grazing and tongue flicking, turning his face so that House could continue, following the thundering path of his pulse beneath his skin, feeling the rock of their bodies as their hearts hammered in the chests, pressed tight together , so hard to know where one ended and the other began.

House sighed, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close as he felt arms tight around his back.

It was perfect. _He_ was perfect.

"Beautiful." He whispered, awe and reverence in his voice as he captured warm and swollen lips with his own, kissed him until he was breathless, until he begged for more with uttered pleas and whispered attestations of love.

And House would never deny him.

And he moved quicker, each rocking thrust stoking a furious fire that blazed through him, burning away every cold and distant thought until there was only this, only now, just Wilson, warm and alive beneath him, arching up and gasping his name as they both strived towards rapturous release, hands held and hair damp. House could feel Wilson's body tighten, paused on the edge, head thrown back and hands gripped on his arms, nails digging into his akin. "Look at me." His hand on Wilson's cheek, thumb drawn across his lip and the look his caught in Wilson's eyes was enough to send him over the edge, Wilson's name tumbling from his lips in a litany of prayers, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's breathless gasps as the fireworks exploded behind his eyes, vision blurred and body ignited for that one white hot moment that echoed an eternity, until he was falling, coasting gracefully to the ground and he arms gave out, one tiny lingering thought in his head guiding him to one side, collapsing and rolling, arm slung across Wilson's chest, heavy and listless over his racing heart.

"Fuck." Wilson breathed succinctly.

House felt a laugh bubble up inside him, shaking the bed as lay half sprawled across him. "Exactly."

The bed rocked a little harder as Wilson laughed too, his hand resting on House's arm, fingers encircling his wrist as House moved, limbs wracked with shaking tremors as he crawled around the bed, slumping down against the pillows and dragging Wilson full body up against him, head tucked beneath his chin, legs tangled in the sheets that he had no energy to reach down and drag up over them. "Well," House swallowed roughly, mouth dry. "I think we can safely say there's no coming back from that."

"God, I hope not." Wilson mumbled, his lips brushing the overly sensitive spot just beneath his ear.

House hummed in pleasure, breath still a little short and he knew his body was going to kill in the morning; sure as hell they'd both need to soak in the tub. He probably should have felt more guilty, shouldn't have pushed them both so far but right now he couldn't care, not when he could feel his body sinking into the mattress, his cheek turned to rest against Wilson's hair, his chest cool where he breathed out across him. He looked down at the hand resting lax upon his chest, fingertips loose in his grip as he played and twined their fingers together, bringing them momentarily to his lips.

"James?" The constraint in his voice was evident in the silence, he heard Wilson sigh beside him, felt the murmured assent to continue. House paused, a kiss pressed lightly into Wilson's hair.

"House...?" Wilson stirred, raising his head but stopped by the tight hold House had across his shoulders.

He sighed, long and deep. "I want this to be it." He said simply, it was hardly a proposal, but it was a desire, admittance to wanting everything they had to give, to have their life together.

Wilson rolled his head, looking up beneath dark lashes to catch his gaze, to read the insecurity and nervous hesitance, and House couldn't see his face too well but he could see the way his smile lit up his eyes, something confident and sure as he leant up to briefly capture House's lips, drawing him down into a deliberately slow kiss that felt so much different from the hurried kisses they had just shared. This was different, this was an agreement, this was promise.

Wilson's hand over his heart. "This is it."


	12. Chapter 12

**A short epilogue just to wrap it up.**

**Thank you all for reading, and special heartfelt thanks for those who took the time to review. x**

The smell of fresh paint filtered through the hallway, tarps and barriers littering the foyer as they began to patch up the crumpled front of the building.

He taken a few days off, had phoned Cuddy and politely enforced his holiday allowance that he hadn't touched for years and laid it on thick with his leg. He got the impression he only got away with it because all there was left to do was glorified clinic work and the mountains of paperwork that had built up, he also got the distinct impression that his time was better spent keeping an eye on Wilson than getting underfoot in the singularly spectacular way he was capable of when he felt undervalued.

Five blissful carefree days had passed, the days sliding by in a drowsy haze of sleeping in and staying up late. He felt reborn, like a weight lifted from his shoulders, something finally shifting and settling into place the first morning he had woken up with Wilson beside him, being able to turn over and wrap his arm neatly around his sleep warm body, the low mumble of something unintelligible as he pressed his face to his neck.

He smiled, twirling his cane as he waited for the elevator, the smirk twitching at his lips. It was like rediscovering the world anew, the simple things he'd always taken for granted, the monotony taken out of day to day life and injected with new purpose. He'd always gone through the motions with his easy lays and two week flings, had done the usual dinner and dates, the steamy showers and days spent in bed, and he always thought that maybe it was just his personality that he found them lacking, couldn't see why people wrote long and boring romantic comedies about contrived situations dreamt up by lonely women waiting for their knight in shining armour.

But this was different.

Picture postcard moments snapped and filed away, every smile, every laugh they shared held close to warm his heart. He almost made himself feel sick.

He looked down at the pink slips of message paper in his hand and wondered if he was about to completely blow his misanthropic image for good.

Still, it would be worth it, if all he lost was his reputation as lonely and heartless bastard then so be it, he was willing to give up so much more to have the simple pleasure of being able to slump down onto the sofa at the end of a long day, arm on the back of the couch, his fingers gentle and fleeting in Wilson's hair as he leant into him. It would probably be quite fun, he mused, he'd trained his team to be overtly suspicious of any out of character behaviour, he could probably drag this out for months if he tried hard enough.

"Good morning my little bunch of chickadees." He sung loudly, dumping his rucksack on to the differential table and scattering the files that had been neatly stacked.

Foreman snapped his wrist to look at his watch. "It's one thirty seven." He muttered drily without glancing up.

House shrugged, he considered it morning if he'd only gotten out of bed an hour before getting in. Admittedly he'd been up a lot earlier than that, woken just as the sun crested the horizon by the smell of breakfast cooking and the bed still warm beside him. Wilson always looked his cutest when sleepy and domestic, and he'd put up a half decent fight about the bacon burning when House had turned him and pressed him back against the kitchen counter.

He'd left for work ten minutes late and sniping that House now owed him for the breakfast he'd have to pick up on the way. House just smirked and crawled back into bed.

"Anybody seen Wilson?" he cast a furtive eye at the corridor as though expecting him to appear that second.

He was pleased at the frigid moment of tension his request created, the sound of paper slipping over itself ceasing as they all looked warily between themselves until Cameron diplomatically cleared her throat. "He's been in all morning, I thought you two..."

"Just wondering if he got my welcome back present." He grinned, something malicious pulling at his smile.

"Has this got anything to do with those two guys with all the buckets?" Chase straightened in his chair, looking suddenly intrigued, pen caught between his teeth as he looked eagerly at House.

"Buckets?" House wondered if there would ever be a time when Cameron wouldn't look concerned. His eyes flicked to wall clock, any minute now he'd finish rounds. Poor, predictable Wilson.

"It's not important." He breezed, sliding one of the blue folders to the edge of the table and flipping through the case Cuddy and deemed worthy of his notice. It wasn't of his normal calibre, in fact it wasn't a puzzle at all, it was just some unfortunate middle aged family man who'd been back and forth between several departments since he'd been caught in one of the scarring blasts that had wiped out half of his colleagues. He cast the folder back onto the table and was about to ask why Chase was still staring at him with that same amused look and why Cameron was perched on the edge of her seat, lip caught between her teeth to stop her obvious desire to fill the silence.

He was saved the hassle. A muffled boom echoed from the other side of the wall, nothing remotely like the one that had destroyed the foyer, more like the soft thump of an air cannon loaded to the brim with glitter and confetti going off.

From where they sat they could see the nurses in the corridor stop and stare, their eyes wide and hands pressed to their mouths as they slowly stepped backwards to avoid the encroaching cloud of misty pink powder and eddying glitter as it slowly filtered out into the hallway, like the inside of a snow globe viciously shaken.

Foreman finally looked up, file falling to his lap as the dust settled outside and he could almost count the seconds until Wilson appeared, and even he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep a bark of laughter from erupting.

"That wasn't exactly necessary was it?" Wilson asked rhetorically as the door closed behind him.

House tried to look non plussed, as though the demented sight of Wilson covered head to toe in glitter and powder paint were completely normal. He'd definitely have to pay for the dry cleaning this time. "I don't know, I think the kids in paediatrics will love it." He had the audacity to grin.

"It looks like a rainbow threw up in my office." Wilson gestured wildly, the motion unsettling another cloud of glitter, shining as it caught the light and drifted slowly to the floor. There was softness to his eyes despite the tone.

"You know what they say Wilson, 'out and proud.'" He leant jauntily on his cane, holding Wilson's eye and fighting the ache in his face to stop his amused smile turning into a full blown grin.

Wilson huffed, giving up on a fight he'd never be able to win. "I'm charging the clean up to your card." He warned with a pointed finger. He turned to leave, completely ignoring the others sat at the table but paused just short of pulling open the door, his hands reaching up instead to vigorously ruffle at his own hair, powder and glitter exploding into the air, a miniscule replica of the carnage House had inflicted upon his office. He looked momentarily triumphant and petty as the carpet around his feet turned colour and shone, pulling at the door handle and fighting the urge to make a rude gesture.

"Wilson, wait." House limped over, footprints in the dust. "You missed a bit." His hand in Wilson hair, brushing away specks of glitter he knew would take days to disappear fully. His thumb tracing over his cheek, smudging at the dusting of pink that highlighted his skin, eyes caught and soft under House's gaze. "Wait for me to get home before you shower." He winked salaciously and Wilson laughed, cut short by a swift but lingering kiss that was more for the occupants of the room than it was for him, not that it stopped House appreciating the subtle sigh as Wilson leaned into him.

Wilson rolled his eyes, the paint on his face hiding his blush as he backed out of the door and House watched him leave, giving himself the necessary dramatic pause before he turned back to the room, all eyes on him.

He waited, an expectant look on his face until Chase stood, smug and smiling, arms raised in triumph before he turned on his co workers, holding out his hand and grinning childishly as Foreman and Cameron dug through pockets and wallets, pressing folded notes into his hand. "Looks like an extra slice of cake at lunch for me." He pocketed the cash and swiped up his file, tapping it smartly on his desk as the others glowered at him. "Gonna go get me an MRI." He saluted them and made for the door.

"Wait," House caught him by the arm, eyes narrowed. "You bet _for_ me?"

Chase stopped short, regarding him with an odd look on his face. "Course I did," He smiled, words almost silent as he spoke. "No one could fake the way you look at him."

It was an oddly unsettling sensation that filled his stomach, the opposite of the cold and dreary weight of low grade depression that had seemed to sink into his pores. The door shut behind Chase and House had to stop himself from watching him go, the realisation that he was actually grateful for the young man's faith in him at war with the age old practise of shrugging him off with well practised scorn.

Maybe Wilson was going to be a bad influence after all.

Not that he really cared.

**Thanks again. I'll be writing more in the near future, so keep an eye out if you like my style. :)**


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